Who knows if Boleyn's
daughter
be my sister?
Tennyson
ALICE. No,
Madam, you have but cut the canvas out;
We can replace it.
MARY. All is well then; rest--
I will to rest; he said, I must have rest.
[_Cries of_ 'ELIZABETH' _in the street_.
A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt?
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.
LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.
MARY. I will not see her.
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?
I will see none except the priest. Your arm.
[_To_ LADY CLARENCE.
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile
Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence.
[_Exeunt_.
_The_ PRIEST _passes. Enter_ ELIZABETH _and_ SIR WILLIAM CECIL.
ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours--
No one in waiting? still,
As if the chamberlain were Death himself!
The room she sleeps in--is not this the way?
No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?
Cecil . .
