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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    Josh.—My Lord, it doth not seem that any one here, noble or unnoble, hath a back. Cromwell.—But there beeth one at least hath a front, and a brazen front too. [To Josh.] Come forward man, and show us thy front; if we can put a sword through it we will. Let us fence. Josh.—Me ! My Lord, I pray you ! Cromwell.—’Tis too late to pray; trust to your rapier, Sir, Now. [Cromwell and Josh, put themselves in position for fencing. Cromwell throws his sword over his hack as if to make a straight down cut.'] Man, I could clip thy body clean atwain And leave one half a-laughing at the other. Smite’em.—It’s true as Golgotha; I’ve see’d him do it. Josh.—My Lord, I’ll take the promise for the deed; I fear my better half might not admire it. Enter Mrs. Buckthorn. Mrs Buckthorn. [Rushing forward.]—Oh, horror! What do I see? My Joshua being made a cleft stick? Oh, my Lord! my Highness ! [Falling at the feet of Cromwell.] If this judge- ment of Solomine must be perpetooated, let me be the babe. But spare the honourable J. B., he is of such light and tender build. Cromwell.—Well, mother, for a moment he is spared. But his time is come. Saw you not his hand was raised against ourselves. Mrs. Buckthorn. [To Josh.]—Honourable Joshua, thou wert always a fool; but I’ll die with thee, Joshua, nevertheless. Our heads shall garnish the same pole. Courage, sweet j illy-flower, we are both orphans, and we shan’t be missed. [Weeps.] Cromwell. —Confound the foolish old woman, she is actually crying; cheer up, mother, he is all safe. Did’nt you see it was fun ? Josh.—All fun, my beloved. Mrs. Buckthorn.—I don’t like such fun. Honourable J. B., give me your sword ! [Josh, gives up his sword.] Cromwell.—The old Buck surrenders to a gallant enemy. I tell thee what, mother, if thou wert twenty years younger I’d plant a kiss on those pouters of thine