SCENE III.

[Last Grooves.]

Drawing-room at Whitehall, with practicable folding doors and curtains, in the last Cut, 3rd Grooves.  A Nurse discovered in attendance.  The Lady ELIZABETH is lying on a Couch, surrounded by the Family of CROMWELL.  Her Sisters are kneeling around her.

Eliz. Leave me awhile; I shall be better soon.  I would but see my father; pray you seek him, I wish to speak with him.

Lady Crom. Nay, my sweet child, You must not be alone.

Eliz. Dear mother, pardon, I shall be better.

Nurse. The physician said She must not be denied the thing she asks.

Lady Crom. Well, then—­but let me cover thee, my sweet, The night is cold.

Eliz. No! no!  I scarce can breathe.

Lady Crom. Indeed she mends, her eyes are brighter.  Come.

[They rise, and go out quietly.]

Eliz. [Raising herself.] Unbare my beating bosom to the wind,
And let the breath of Heaven wander through
The dreary twilight of my tangled hair. 
Mine eyes shall never sparkle any more,
Save with the fearful glitter of unrest;
My cheeks flush not with any hope on earth;
But with the live glow in their ash burn on. 
Death holds his Carnival of winter roses
Till their last blossom drops within the grave. 
Hush! what was that?  I thought I heard a noise: 
He comes, my father comes!  Away all thought
Of self—­Away, base passion, that would bind
My winged soul to earth,—­hush! hush! he comes.
[Pause.]
Twas but the night-wind’s flagging breath!  No sound
Of mortal footstep, as it hither crept
Tiptoe and carefully, ’twas like a murderer,
That in his sleep walks forth.  See, how he threads his way
’Mid all the antique chattels of the room
Where it was none!  Mark, where his careful feet
Avoid yon blood-stains, though they shrink not when
The grey rat courses o’er them!  Nay, ’tis gone. 
A shape of fancy’s painting to the sight. 
’Twas but the wind, I said—­whose fleeting voice
The vaulted corridor did syllable aloud,
Mingling my name with tombs. 
Again, I hear
It is his heavy footstep—­

Enter CROMWELL, L.

Father! here
Come close and press me warmly to thee, quick! 
Lest Death step in between us—­’
Reach me here
That cup.  My voice fails—­not that hand! ’tis blood,

[He lets fall the cup.]

As in my dreams.  I would assoil him.  Father! 
’Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life
The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear
Thought guiding action in all human things,
Not in the busy, whirling masque of life,
Reality unreal, but in truth. 
Then the eye cuts as the chirurgeon’s knife
Mocks the poor corpse.  I saw not when he died: