And now I bend me, though my tingling ears
Unconscious but drink in the deep-drawn sigh,
That doth attend on greatness. 
This is folly. 
O coward fancy, lie still in thy grave! 
A king doth keep his coffin, why not thou? 
I’ll meet him like a conqueror, whose cheek
Flushes with manly pity.  Could it be
That he had lived without his country’s shame! 
But no! and thus, I come, Charles Stuart! to tell
Thy bloodless clay, that I repent me not! 
No! if a hecatomb of kings were slain,
I’d own the deed unto their legion’d spirits! [Exit, L.]

SCENE IV.

[Last Grooves.]

A State Room in Whitehall.  The moon shines through the windows.

On a large bed with crimson hangings, surmounted with black plumes, is seen a Coffin and pall, richly emblazoned with the royal arms of England.  On each side an Ironside keeping guard with a matchlock.  They walk to and fro, and speak as they meet.

1st Iron. I tell thee, Bowtell, I would this watch were over.

2nd Iron. I would it were a bright morning, with our pike-heads glittering in the sun.  I would rather it were a charge of Rupert’s best cavalry in our rear.

1st Iron. I mind when I saw him once alive, ’twas at the close of the fight, and he would have charged once more, but a false Scotch noble held him back to his ruin.  Had I been he, I would have cloven the false Scot to the chine.  I was a prisoner, and near him; he had a tall white plume then.  His dark face showed very eager beneath it.

2nd.  Iron. Ay, I have heard good Jepherson tell of it, and how the Lord blinded them all.

1st Iron. I mind his very words,—­ “Charles Stuart begs a little loyal blood To do him right—­a charge, but one more charge!  Come on, we do command, come on.  O cowards!  Had I but fifty of my nephew Rupert!” And then he waved his sword, as ’twere the whole cut and thrust exercise in the air at once, and his plume fluttered like a white bird in the eye of a tempest.  If he should speak now—­[A footstep is heard, both look round.]

2nd Iron. Didst thou hear nought?

1st Iron. O for a stoop of strong waters!

2nd Iron. Hist! ’twas like a soldier’s tread in the long gallery beyond.

1st Iron. Nay, ’tis the echo of thine own feet.

2nd Iron ’Tis a footstep.  Hark, it stops!

1st Iron. Do thou speak.

Enter CROMWELL, L.

[They bring their matchlocks to bear.] The word, or else we fire!

Crom. [Muttering.] Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?

2nd Iron. Hold!  ’Tis the General.

Crom. Ha! how fare you?

[The Soldiers move towards the door, coming from the coffin.]