A day with Cromwell: a drama of history, in five acts, by Auctor.

  • Benjamin Ward Richardson
Date:
1869
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: A day with Cromwell: a drama of history, in five acts, by Auctor. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by Royal College of Physicians, London. The original may be consulted at Royal College of Physicians, London.

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    Yet fills it up no measure. The wise men say, Rachel is mad, for she doth live on thoughts She cannot clothe in words. I turn, and ask The wise men—What is time ? They shake their heads, But answer have they none. I laugh at them, And then they venture to be wise, and say, Poor Rachel, she is mad. Time, time, time. Go to, thou, nothing everything-. Go to, Thou ruthless tyrant, and thou abject slave. I bend to thee, and use thee to my bent. I must away. [Exit. Be-enter Charles Harfleur. Charles.—Now for a plunge into the lion’s mouth for the lamb’s lip. There goes the weird woman after her dead son, and here go I after a live woman. Shall I risk it ? If they mistake me for one of those Cavaliers said to be after old Noll, whom the Devil hob-nob with soon, with intent to kill; then for a sharp axe, and a short exit. If they don’t mistake, then for a lovely girl, and a long embrace. I’ll take the chance. [Exit. Scene II.—A Garden in Whitehall beyond the Gateway. The left wing of the Palace in the distance. Enter Joshua Buckthorn with Cromwell following, unarmed. Josh.—This way, my Lord your Highness ; this way, my Lord, this way. Cromwell. [In rage.']—Tut, tut, tut; I tell thee, knave, I’ll no more of it. It mattereth not what I may be doing, in will you with your babble and your scum; were I planning a siege it were the same. Josh.—But my Lord, indeed, my Lord- Cromwell.—Tut, my Lord, indeed my Lord. I tell thee, hog’s flesh, I’ll have no more of this; you give me not time to gird on my sword—tut, tut, tut. Josh.—Well, my Lord, then I have only to say, that if Jeremy White doth succeed, the fault beeth not mine. Cromwell.—Jeremy White ! Jerry White ! Stay, stay, sirrah. Be he not one of those who would dip his hands in my blood ?