Blazon not, traitor, 'neath my very eyes,
Thy parricide, made worse by blasphemy!
Ah! 'twas a fatal wine that snarled thy wits!
'Twas poison thou didst drink to the King's health.
My vengeance hovered, silent, o'er thy crime;
Although my son, my victim thou shalt be.
The tree will set the torch unto itself,
To burn its fruit. [Exit
Scene 20.—Richard Cromwell, alone.
Richard. For one poor glass of wine,
A mighty pother, truly. But to drink
On a fast-day!—why, that is sacrilege.
Traitor, blasphemer, parricide—what else?
'Twere better far, though exquisite the feast,
To fast with saints, i' faith, than drink with madmen!
That is a truth that never till this day
Did my shrewd wit suspect. My father is
Beside himself.
[Enter Lord Rochester.
Scene 21.—Richard Cromwell, Lord Rochester.
Rochester [aside.] Richard seems ill at ease.
Richard [spying Rochester as he passes across the back of the stage.
Ah! 'tis my spy! The villain had told all.
I'll track him as he were a Scottish fox.
[He walks toward Rochester with a threatening air.
Traitor, I meet thee once again!
Rochester [aside.] The deuce!
A fresh attack! But we had made our peace.
[Aloud.
