Page:CromwellHugo.djvu/191

 Blazon not, traitor, 'neath my very eyes, Thy parricide, made worse by blasphemy! Ah! 'twas a fatal wine that snarled thy wits! 'Twas poison thou didst drink to the King's health. My vengeance hovered, silent, o'er thy crime; Although my son, my victim thou shalt be. The tree will set the torch unto itself, To burn its fruit.

20.—, alone.

Richard. For one poor glass of wine, A mighty pother, truly. But to drink On a fast-day!—why, that is sacrilege. Traitor, blasphemer, parricide—what else? 'Twere better far, though exquisite the feast, To fast with saints, i' faith, than drink with madmen! That is a truth that never till this day Did my shrewd wit suspect. My father is Beside himself.
 * [Enter.

21.—.

Rochester [aside.] Richard seems ill at ease. Richard [spying  as he passes across the back of the stage. Ah! 'tis my spy! The villain had told all. I'll track him as he were a Scottish fox. [He walks toward  with a threatening air. Traitor, I meet thee once again! Rochester [aside.] The deuce! A fresh attack! But we had made our peace.
 * [Aloud.