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(From "Tis Pity she's a Queen.”—A.D. 1610.)

ACT IV. SCENE 2.

The LADY MARGARET, with SUSAN and LUCY; LADY M.

at her embroidery frame, singing.

Girls, when I am gone away,

On this bosom strew

Only flowers meek and pale,

And the yew.

Lay these hands down by my side,

Let my face be bare;

Bind a kerchief round the face,

Smooth my hair.

Let my bier be borne at dawn,

Summer grows so sweet,

Deep into the forest green

Where boughs meet.

Then pass away, and let me lie
One long, warm, sweet day

There alone with face upturn'd,

One sweet day.

While the morning light grows broad,

While noon sleepeth sound,

While the evening falls and faints,
While the world goes round.

Susan. Whence had you this song lady?
L. Mar.

Out of the air;

From no one an it be not from the wind

That goes at noonday in the sycamore

trees.

-When said the tardy page he would

return?

Susan. By twelve, upon this very hour.

L. Mar.

Look now,

The sand falls down the glass with even

pace,

The shadows lie like yesterday's. Nothing

Is wrong with the world. You are a part

of it,

I stand within a magic circle charm'd
From reach of anything, shut in from you,
Leagues from my needle, and this frame

I touch,

Waiting till doomsday come

[Knocking heard]

The messenger!

Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my

heart

Ready for death, or too much ravishment.

[Exeunt both Girls.]

How the little sand-hill slides and slides;

how many

Red grains would drop while a man's keen

knife drawn

Across one's heart let the red life out?

Susan. [returning]

Lady!

L. Mar. I know it by your eyes. O do not fear

To tell all punctually: I am carved of

stone.

BY THE WINDOW.

Still deep into the West I gazed; the light

Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird

Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and

sleeps,

Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?

Whether from moon, or sun, or angel's face

It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,
Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death

Along the blind charm'd way to nothingness,

Lull'd the last nerve that ached. It was a sky

Made for a man to waste his will upon,

To be received as wiser than all toil,

And much more fair. And what was strife of men?

And what was time?

Then came a certain thing.

Are intimations for the elected soul

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