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His northern Presidency, which that bill

Denounced.
Pym.

Too true; never more, never more

Walked we together.

Most alone I went.

I have had friends-all here are fast my friends-
But I shall never quite forget that friend.

And yet, it could not but be real in him!

You, Vane-you, Rudyard, have no right to trust To Wentworth ; but can no one hope with me? Hampden, will Wentworth dare shed English blood Like water?

Hamp.

Ireland is Aceldama.

Pym. Will he turn Scotland to a hunting-ground To please the King, now that he knows the King? The people or the King-and that king, Charles! Hamp. Pym, all here know you; you'll not set your heart

On any baseless dream but say one deed

Of Wentworth's since he left us...

Vane.

[Shouting without.

There! he comes,

And they shout for him! Wentworth's at Whitehall,

The King embracing him, now, as we speak,

And he, to be his match in courtesies,

Taking the whole war's risk upon himself!

Now, while you tell us here how changed he is!

Hear you?

Pym.

And yet if 'tis a dream, no more,

That Wentworth chose their side, and brought the

King

To love it as if Laud had loved it first,

And the Queen after-that he led their cause
Calm to success and kept it spotless through,

So that our very eyes could look upon

The travail of our souls and close content
That violence, which something mars the right
Which sanctions it, had taken off no grace
From its serene regard: only a dream!

Hamp. We meet here to accomplish certain good
By obvious means, and keep tradition up
Of free assemblages, else obsolete,
In this poor chamber; nor without effect
Has friend met friend to counsel and confirm,
As, listening to the beats of England's heart,
They spoke its wants to Scotland's prompt reply
By these her delegates. Remains alone

That word grow deed, as with God's help it shall—
But with the devil's hindrance, who doubts too?
Looked we or no that tyranny should turn
Her engines of oppression to their use?

Whereof, suppose the worst be Wentworth here—
Shall we break off the tactics which succeed
In drawing out our formidablest foe,
Let bickering and disunion take their place?
Or count his presence as our conquest's proof,
And keep the old arms at their steady play?
Proceed to England's work! Fiennes, read the list!

Fien. Ship-money is refused, or fiercely paid,

In every county, save the northern parts

Where Wentworth's influence...

Vane.

I in England's name

[Shouting.

Declare her work, this way, at end! till now,
Up to this moment, peaceful strife was best!
We English had free leave to think; till now
We kept the shadow of a Parliament

In Scotland: but all's changed: they change the first,

They try brute-force for law-they, first of all... Voices. Good! Talk enough! The old true hearts with Vane!

Vane. Till we crush Wentworth for her, there's no

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Something to England. I seek Wentworth, friends.

FROM PIPPA PASSES.

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PIPPA IS A GIRL FROM A SILK-FACTORY, WHOSE PASSING THE VARIOUS PERSONS OF THE PLAY, AT CERTAIN CRITICAL MOMENTS, IN THE COURSE OF HER HOLIDAY, BECOMES, UNCONSCIOUSLY TO HERSELF, A DETERMINING INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNE OF EACH. AT ASOLO IN THE TREVISAN.

MORNING. Up the Hill-side, inside the Shrubhouse. LUCA's Wife, OTTIMA, and her Paramour, the German SEBALD.

Seb. (sings.) Let the watching lids wink!

Day's a-blaze with eyes, think

Deep into the night, drink!

Otti. Night? Such may be your Rhine-land nights,

perhaps ;

But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink,
--We call such light, the morning's: let us see!
Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tall
Naked geraniums straggle! Push the lattice
Behind that frame!-Nay, do I bid you?-Sebald,
It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course
The slide-bolt catches.-Well, are you content,
Or must I find you something else to spoil?

Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is it full morning?
Oh, don't speak then!

Seb.

Ay, thus it used to be! Ever your house was, I remember, shut Till mid-day; I observed that, as I strolled On mornings thro' the vale here: country girls Were noisy, washing garments in the brook, Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills, But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye! And wisely-you were plotting one thing there, Nature, another outside: I looked upRough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars, Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. Oh, I remember!—and the peasants laughed And said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife." This house was his, this chair, this window-his!

Otti. Ah, the clear morning! I can see St. Mark's: That black streak is the belfry. Stop: Vicenza Should lie . . . There's Padua, plain enough, that blue!

Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger.

Seb.

It seems to me a night with a sun added.
Where's dew? where's freshness?

plant, I bruised

Morning?

That bruised

In getting thro' the lattice yestereve,

Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark

In the dust on the sill.

Otti.

Oh shut the lattice, pray!

Seb. Let me lean out. Foul as the morn may be.

I cannot scent blood here,

There, shut the world out! How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curse The world and all outside! Let us throw off

This mask.

How do you bear yourself? Let's out

With all of it!

Otti.

Best never speak of it.

Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it,

Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood,"
For instance-let those two words mean "His blood"
And nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now,
"His blood."

Otti.

The deed

Seb.

Assuredly if I repented

Repent? who should repent, or why?

What puts that in your head? Did I once say

That I repented?

Otti.

No, I said the deed

Seb. "The deed," and "the event"-just now

it was

“Our passion's fruit "—the devil take such cant!

Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,

I am his cut-throat, you are—

Otti.

Here is the wine;

Black? white,

I brought it when we left the house above,
And glasses too-wine of both sorts.

then?

Seb. But am not I his cut-throat? What are you?

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