I saw the hand of Tostig cover it.
Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, him
Reverently we buried. Friends, had I been here,
Without too large self-lauding I must hold
The sequel had been other than his league
With Norway, and this battle. Peace be with him!
He was not of the worst. If there be those
At banquet in this hall, and hearing me--
For there be those I fear who prick'd the lion
To make him spring, that sight of Danish blood
Might serve an end not English--peace with them
Likewise, if they can be at peace with what
God gave us to divide us from the wolf!
ALDWYTH (_aside to_ HAROLD).
Make not our Morcar sullen: it is not wise.
HAROLD. Hail to the living who fought, the dead who fell!
VOICES. Hail, hail!
FIRST THANE. How ran that answer which King Harold gave
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd for England?
LEOFWIN. 'Seven feet of English earth, or something more,
Seeing he is a giant!'
FIRST THANE. Then for the bastard
Six feet and nothing more!
LEOFWIN. Ay, but belike
Thou hast not learnt his measure.
FIRST THANE. By St. Edmund
I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the man
Here by dead Norway without dream or dawn!
SECOND THANE. What is he bragging still that he will come
To thrust our Harold's throne from under him?
My nurse would tell me of a molehill crying
To a mountain 'Stand aside and room for me!'
FIRST THANE.
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