Benedicite !
Oar bird makes meny hia dull bars with Bong,
Tet would Dot penitential pBalms accord
More fitly with yonr sin than minBtrelB' lays ?

I know no blot apon my life's fair record.

What is it to wantou with a Christ - cursed Jewess,
Defy thy father and pollute thy name,
And fling to the ordures thine immortal soul ?

Forbear ! thy cowl 'a a helmet, thy serge dock
Invulnerable as brass — yet I am human,
Thou, priest, art still a man.

Pity him, Heaven !
To what a pass their draughts have brought the mildest,
Noblest of princes ! Softly, my son ; be ruled
By me, thy spiritual friend and father.
Thou hast been drugged with sense-deranging potions,
Thy blood set boiling and thy brain askew ;