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Outspeeding the shark and the sword-fish dark
Under the Ocean foam,

And up through the rifts of the mountain clifts
They passed to their Dorian home.

And now from their fountains in Enna's mountains
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted grown single-hearted
They ply their watery tasks.

At sunrise they leap from their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill :

At noontide they flow through the woods below
And the meads of Asphodel :

And at night they sleep in the rocking deep

Beneath the Ortygian* shore,

Like spirits that lie in the azure sky
When they love, but live no more.

P. B. Shelley.

CLXVIII.

HENRY VIII.

ACT IV. SCENE II.-Kimbolton.

Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her gentleman

Grif.

usher, and PATIENCE, her woman.

OW does your grace?

Kath.

O Griffith, sick to death!

My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the

earth,

Willing to leave their burthen. Reach a chair :
So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease.

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,
That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,
Was dead?

* Arethusa and the Alpheus were said to rise again as a fountain in the island of Ortygia, near Syracuse.

Grif. Yes, madam; but I think your grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to 't.

Kath. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died: If well, he stepped before me, happily

For my example.

Grif.

Well, the voice goes, madam :

For after the stout Earl Northumberland

Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,
As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,

He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill

He could not sit his mule.

Kath.

Alas, poor man !

Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
Lodged in the abbey ; where the reverend abbot,
With all his covent, honourably received him;
To whom he gave these words, 'O, father abbot,
An old man, broken with the storms of state,
Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
Give him a little earth for charity!'

So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness
Pursued him still : and, three nights after this,
About the hour of eight, which he himself
Foretold should be his last, full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
He gave his honours to the world again,
His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

Kath. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!
Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
And yet with charity. He was a man
Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion,
Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play;
His own opinion was his law : i' the presence
He would say untruths; and be ever double
Both in his words and meaning: he was never,
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful :

His promises were, as he then was, mighty;

But his performance, as he is now, nothing:
Of his own body he was ill, and gave

The clergy ill example.

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Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashioned to much honour from his cradle.
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ;
Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;
Lofty and sour to them that loved him not;
But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.
And though he were unsatisfied in getting,
Which was a sin, yet, in bestowing, madam,
He was most princely: ever witness for him
Those twins of learning that he raised in you,
Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ;
The other, though unfinished, yet so famous,
So excellent in heart, and still so rising,
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
His overthrow heaped happiness upon him;
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
And found the blessedness of being little :
And, to add greater honours to his age
Than man could give him, he died fearing God.
Kath. After my death I wish no other herald,
No other speaker of my living actions,
To keep mine honour from corruption,
But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,
With thy religious truth and modesty,

Now in his ashes honour: peace be with him!

Patience, be near me still; and set me lower :
I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,
Cause the musicians play me that sad note
I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating
On that celestial harmony I go to.

W. Shakespeare.

CLXIX.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

HE loppéd tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower, The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower; Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;

Her tides have equal times to come and go ;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web :
No joy so great but runneth to an end,

No hap so hard but may in time amend.

R. Southwell.

CLXX.

THE QUIET HOPING HEART.

HATE'ER my God ordains is right;
His will is ever just ;

Howe'er He orders now my cause,
I will be still and trust.

He is my God;

Though dark my road,

He holds me that I shall not fall;

Wherefore to Him I leave it all.

Whate'er my God ordains is right;
He never will deceive;

He leads me by the proper path,
And so to Him I cleave,

And take content

What He hath sent ;

His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait His day.

Whate'er my God ordains is right;
He taketh thought for me;
The cup that my Physician gives
No poisoned draught can be,
But medicine due ;

For God is true;

And on that changeless truth I build, And all my heart with hope is filled.

Whate'er my God ordains is right; Though I the cup must drink That bitter seems to my faint heart, I will not fear nor shrink :

Tears pass away

With dawn of day,

Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow all depart.

Whate'er my God ordains is right;
My Light, my Life is He,

Who cannot will me aught but good;
I trust Him utterly;

For well I know,

In joy or woe,

We soon shall see, as sunlight clear, How faithful was our Guardian here.

Whate'er my God ordains is right;
Here will I take my stand,

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