acticable doors, R. and L.U.E.'S, chairs, &c._

_CROMWELL enters, R., very much agitated, followed by
his daughter ELIZABETH. After pacing across and
back, he stops short in the middle of the stage and
speaks._

_Crom._ Have I not promis'd thee that I will save him,
If he will save himself? [_To his daughter._]

_Eliz._ Thou hast, dear father.
And then, with blessings on thy righteous name,
Rejecting all they offer thee, vain titles,
And selfish, mean, dishonourable honours,
Thou wilt return unto our natural home
At Huntingdon, and I will read to thee,
As I was wont. Thy hair then will not whiten
So fast, and sometimes thou wilt have a smile
Upon thy countenance, that grows so stern
Of late, I hardly dare look up to thee,
And call thee "dearest father"--
Shall it be?
Did the king speak thee fair?

_Crom._ [_Gloomily._] Too fair, too fair!
E'en to be honest fair. Our good John Milton
Speaks bitter words. He saith Lord Strafford grac'd
Right well the block, that put his trust in him.
What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?

_Eliz._ 'Twas not the fault of Charles that Strafford died.

_Crom._ It was his fault to sign--
He should have died
Himself first. Daughter! urge me not--I'll do
What the Lord wills in this. Go! mind the household,
Thou little Royalist.

_Eliz._ Nay! father, hear me--

_Crom._ Away, puss! Where are Richard and thy husband?

_Eliz._ I will not leave thee, 'till thou promisest--

_Crom._ As the Lord liveth, is it not enough
To struggle with a royal hypocrite,
To keep his feet from falling, 'mid dissension,
On all sides, worse than chaos, liker hell!
To be thus baited, by one's own pale household,
Prating of what they may not understand?
Thy brother Richard with his heavy step,
Ploughing his way from book-cas'd room to room,
With eye as dull as huckster's three-day's fish,
And just as silent; then thy mother with
Her tearful and beseeching look, that moves
Like a green widow in a mourning trance,
The very picture of "God help us all;"
And thou, with sickly whining worse than they,
Do ye think I shall do murder?
Why not go
At once unto the foe, and there be spurn'd
By Henrietta, that false Delilah?--
Or plot my death for loyalty? What is
A father in your minds weigh'd with a king?
Yet what is "king" to you? ye were not bred
To lick his moral sores in ecstasy,
And bay like hounds before the royal gate
On all the world beside--Go hence! go hence!
I