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Of Strafford and of Derby; and the fields
Of Dunbar, Tredagh, Naseby, Worcester—
Those combats of the only arms on earth
That could uphold or strike down England's throne;
I saw that throne, by conflict shaken, fall;
I have made war on ranters, preachers, saints;
My hand, engaged in never-ending strife,
Can tell how many strokes will dull the sword.
Ah well! I near at last my labours' goal,
Cromwell must fall! A new day is at hand.
But must it be, to sadden all my joy,
To dim my glory, that a friend must die,
A victim of my victory? Old comrade,
Remember that we two our dauntless blades
Have bathed in the same blood, and breathed the dust
Of the same conflicts. For the second time
And last, Broghill, I ask, in the King's name:
Wilt live a faithful subject, or wilt die
A traitor?—Think on 't. Ormond will await
Your answer in an hour.
[He writes on a piece of paper, which he hands to Broghill.
Your answer in an hour. Hereon is writ
My borrowed name and secret dwelling-place.
Broghill [pushing away the paper.
Ah! do not tell me! No. I know too much.
For long the same tent sheltered us, I know,
But my sad fate must be fulfilled. Farewell.
Neither informer nor confederate
I'll be. I will forget all you have said.
But are you of success in such a plot
Fully assured? Nought Cromwell doth escape.
His eye is ever upon Europe fixed,
His hand envelopes her. And when your hand