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. Ah, those days
Were happy. It was never merry world
In England, since the Bible came among us.
CECIL. And who says that?
ALICE. It is a saying among the Catholics.
CECIL. It never will be merry world in England,
Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor.
ALICE. The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it.
_Enter_ ELIZABETH.
ELIZABETH. The Queen is dead.
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