KING. What, my Archy ! He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears, He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot, arrows Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit, QUEEN. Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence Ten minutes in the rain: be it your penance He weaves about himself a world of mirth Out of this wreck of ours. LAUD. I take with patience, as my Master did, KING. My lord, Pray overlook these papers. Archy's words QUEEN. And the lion' That wears them must be tamed. My dearest lord, I see the new-born courage in your eye Armed to strike dead the spirit of the time. Do thou persist for, faint but in resolve, * And it were better thou hadst still remained Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions, In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream * LAUD. * * And if this suffice not, Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst They may lick up that scum of schismatics. Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand: They talk of peace! Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now. Has lost his careless mirth, and that his words KING. It partly is, That our minds piece the vacant intervals QUEEN. Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts. Come, I will sing to you; let us go try shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow. Dear Henrietta! * KING. SCENE III. HAMPDEN, PYM, CROMWELL, and the younger VANE. HAMPDEN. England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle, As pawn for that inheritance of freedom Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile :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. Mark too that flock of fleecy-winged clouds Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. HAMPDEN. Hail, fleet herald Of tempest! that wild pilot who shall guide regions, Lone Where power's poor dupes and victims yet have never Propitiated the savage fear of kings With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites Of pale-blue atmosphere; whose tears keep green Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradled peace built on the mountain tops, Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn the storm Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth, ] thoughts * That cannot die, and may not be repelled. * * * * THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. SWIFT as a spirit hastening to his task |