FullReads

[NOTE:
27-32 even…power printed as a fragment, Garnett,
1862; inserted here conjecturally, Rossetti, 1870.]

LAUD:
Officer, take the prisoner from the bar,
And be his tongue slit for his insolence.

BASTWICK:
While this hand holds a pen–

LAUD:
Be his hands–

JUXON:
Stop! 35
Forbear, my lord! The tongue, which now can speak
No terror, would interpret, being dumb,
Heaven’s thunder to our harm;…
And hands, which now write only their own shame,
With bleeding stumps might sign our blood away. 40

LAUD:
Much more such ‘mercy’ among men would be,
Did all the ministers of Heaven’s revenge
Flinch thus from earthly retribution. I
Could suffer what I would inflict.
[EXIT BASTWICK GUARDED.]
Bring up
The Lord Bishop of Lincoln.–
[TO STRATFORD.]
Know you not 45
That, in distraining for ten thousand pounds
Upon his books and furniture at Lincoln,
Were found these scandalous and seditious letters
Sent from one Osbaldistone, who is fled?
I speak it not as touching this poor person; 50
But of the office which should make it holy,
Were it as vile as it was ever spotless.
Mark too, my lord, that this expression strikes
His Majesty, if I misinterpret not.

[ENTER BISHOP WILLIAMS GUARDED.]

STRAFFORD:
‘Twere politic and just that Williams taste 55
The bitter fruit of his connection with
The schismatics. But you, my Lord Archbishop,
Who owed your first promotion to his favour,
Who grew beneath his smile–

LAUD:
Would therefore beg
The office of his judge from this High Court,– 60
That it shall seem, even as it is, that I,
In my assumption of this sacred robe,
Have put aside all worldly preference,
All sense of all distinction of all persons,
All thoughts but of the service of the Church.– 65
Bishop of Lincoln!

WILLIAMS:
Peace, proud hierarch!
I know my sentence, and I own it just.
Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve,
In stretching to the utmost

…

[NOTE:
Scene 3. 1-69 Bring…utmost 1870; omitted 1824.]

SCENE 4

HAMPDEN, PYM, CROMWELL, HIS DAUGHTER, AND YOUNG SIR HARRY VANE.

 

 HAMPDEN:
 

 England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle,
 

 Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave!
 

 I held what I inherited in thee
 

 As pawn for that inheritance of freedom
 

 Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile:      5
 

 How can I call thee England, or my country?--
 

  Does the wind hold?