No More Learning

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 . . . God guide me lest I lose the way.
[_Exit_ ELIZABETH.

CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones,
At last a harbour opens; but therein
Sunk rocks--they need fine steering--much it is
To be nor mad, nor bigot--have a mind--
Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be,
Miscolour things about her--sudden touches
For him, or him--sunk rocks; no passionate faith--
But--if let be--balance and compromise;
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her--a Tudor
School'd by the shadow of death--a Boleyn, too,
Glancing across the Tudor--not so well.

_Enter_ ALICE.

How is the good Queen now?

ALICE. Away from Philip.
Back in her childhood--prattling to her mother
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles,
And childlike--jealous of him again--and once
She thank'd her father sweetly for his book
Against that godless German.