My heart the semblance of a muffled bell,
Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like
The prickly writhings of a new-slough’d snake;
Each several moment as the awaken’d glare
Of the doom’d felon starting from his sleep,
While the slow, hideous meaning of his cell
Grows on him like an incubus, until
The truth shoots like an ice-bolt to his brain
From his dull eyeball; then, from brain to heart
Flashes in sickening tumult of despair—­
As in this bosom.

Pear. ’Tis black Melancholy! 
I’ve read of such, my Lord; it hath no part
With what men think, or do;—­’tis physical—­
A holy preacher feels the self-same thing,
That ne’er outstepp’d his sacred village round;
’Tis often nurs’d of this damp, noxious climate: 
Most excellent men have suffer’d it—­
Thou know’st
I have seen bloody deeds beneath the sun
Upon the Spanish main, when I was young.

Crom. What of them, say?—­I thought thou loved’st not To speak thyself a pirate—­

Pear. ’Twas, my Lord, Ere I knew grace, or my most honour’d master.

Crom. I trust thou art forgiven.

Pear. I’d not speak
Of deed of mine, my Lord.  I did but think
That in the sunlit tropics I had known
The wantonness of cruelty; and seen
Aged men grown grey in crime, whose hair thus blanch’d
Show’d white, like sugar by hot blood refin’d.

Crom. What of this!—­Tell me what thou knew’st of them.

Pear. I never knew desponding doubt or fear
Curdle the healthy current of their veins;
They never shudder’d at a blood-red kerchief,
But on their shining knife-blades, as they smok’d
On deck through the long summer noon, would show
The dents and notches to their younger fellows,
As thus—­“This cut a Spanish merchant’s throat,
With wealthy ingots laden; this the rib-bone
Of his lean Rib, that clutch’d an emerald brooch
Too eagerly, hath rasp’d—­and here, d’ye see a chip? 
This paid the reckoning of a skin-flint purser.”

Crom. What meanest thou by this?—­

Pear. I mean, my Lord,
The frequent gloom that clouds thy noble spirit,
Is born of humours natural to thy body;
And, as foul vapours blur the honest sun,
Hangs o’er the face of the high enterprize,
That hath enrich’d thy name, not harm’d thy soul.

Enter a Servant, L.

Ser. My Lord, good Master Milton waits without, Desiring presence of you.—­

Crom. Pearson, go. 
I would see him alone.  Perchance his words
[Exit PEARSON, L. Servant follows.]
May ease my tortur’d breast.
[Rings a small bell.  Enter a Servant, L.]
Ask quickly, how
My daughter fares, if she be better—­
[Servant crosses behind and exit, R.]
Lo! 
If I should lose her.  Nay! it cannot be.