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 No daughter's tears, nor, more acerb, A daughter's frail declension from Thy serene example, come Between thee and thy much content. Nor could the last sharp argument Turn thee from thy sweetest folly; To the keen accolade and holy Thou didst bend low a sprightly knee, And jest Death out of gravity As a too sad-visaged friend; So, jocund passing to the end Of thy laughing martyrdom; And now from travel art gone home Where, since gain of thee was given, Surely there is more mirth in heaven!

Thus, in Fisher and in thee, Arose the purple dynasty, The anointed Kings of Tyburn tree; High in act and word each one: He that spake—and to the sun Pointed—"I shall shortly be Above yon fellow," He too, he No less high of speech and brave, Whose word was: "Though I shall have Sharp dinner, yet I trust in Christ To have a most sweet supper." Priced Much by men that utterance was Of the doomed Leonidas,— Not more exalt than these, which note Men who thought as Shakespeare wrote. But more lofty eloquence Than is writ by poet's pens