STRAFFORD: 
’Twere politic and just that Williams taste 55
The bitter fruit of his connection with
The schismatics.  But you, my Lord Archbishop,
Who owed your first promotion to his favour,
Who grew beneath his smile—­

LAUD: 
Would therefore beg
The office of his judge from this High Court,—­ 60
That it shall seem, even as it is, that I,
In my assumption of this sacred robe,
Have put aside all worldly preference,
All sense of all distinction of all persons,
All thoughts but of the service of the Church.—­ 65
Bishop of Lincoln!

WILLIAMS: 
Peace, proud hierarch! 
I know my sentence, and I own it just. 
Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve,
In stretching to the utmost

...

NOTE: 
Scene 3. 1-69 Bring...utmost 1870; omitted 1824.

SCENE 4:  HAMPDEN, PYM, CROMWELL, HIS DAUGHTER, AND YOUNG SIR HARRY VANE.

HAMPDEN: 
England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle,
Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave! 
I held what I inherited in thee
As pawn for that inheritance of freedom
Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler’s smile:  5
How can I call thee England, or my country?—­
Does the wind hold?

VANE: 
The vanes sit steady
Upon the Abbey towers.  The silver lightnings
Of the evening star, spite of the city’s smoke,
Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air. 10
Mark too that flock of fleecy-winged clouds
Sailing athwart St. Margaret’s.

NOTE: 
11 flock 1824; fleet 1870.

HAMPDEN: 
Hail, fleet herald
Of tempest! that rude pilot who shall guide
Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee,
Beyond the shot of tyranny, 15
Beyond the webs of that swoln spider... 
Beyond the curses, calumnies, and [lies?]
Of atheist priests! ...  And thou
Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic,
Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm, 20
Bright as the path to a beloved home
Oh, light us to the isles of the evening land! 
Like floating Edens cradled in the glimmer
Of sunset, through the distant mist of years
Touched by departing hope, they gleam! lone regions, 25
Where Power’s poor dupes and victims yet have never
Propitiated the savage fear of kings
With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew
Is yet unstained with tears of those who wake
To weep each day the wrongs on which it dawns; 30
Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo
Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites
Wrest man’s free worship, from the God who loves,
To the poor worm who envies us His love! 
Receive, thou young ... of Paradise. 35
These exiles from the old and sinful world!