Think you 'tis well? Oh, say, should Englishmen
Arrive at this, such price to set on art,
Ne'er rivalling the untaught nightingale,
That with their ears shut to wild misery,
Deaf to starvation's groans, the prayer of want,
The giant moan of hunger o'er the land,
Till the sky darken with the face of angels,
God's smiling ministers, averted--then!
To buy a male soprano they should give
His price in gold, that peach-fed lords and dames
Might have their senses tickled with the trills
Evolv'd from a soft, tumid, warbling throat--
Why then farewell to England and her glory!

_Crom._ Methinks the end of all things should be near,
When that doth happen!

_Arth._ Did I hear aright
That Milton was thy friend?

_Crom._ Yea! with the saints,
That crowd in arm'd appeal before high Heaven
To set this nation free. He is my friend,
And England's.

_Arth._ I in Italy did know
That excellent man. Full often we have sat
Upon the white and slippery marble limb
Of some great ruin'd temple, whilst all round
Was dipp'd in the warm, lustrous atmosphere