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''First Monk. (still listening)'' Begone, he issues forth. (Exit Ongar.

Hex. Good-morrow, valiant Thane, whose pious gifts Have won heay'n's grace to renovate thy strength, And grant thee longer life, how goes thy health?

Wog. I thank you, rev'rend father, greatly mended.

First Monk. The prayers of holy men have power to save, E'en on the very borders of the tomb, The humbled soul who doth with gifts enrich The holy church.

Second Monk. Didst thou not feel within thee A peaceful calm, a cheering confidence, Soon as thy pious offering was accepted?

''Wog. (hesitating.)'' Yes, rev'rend fathers,—I have thought indeed— Perhaps you meant it so—that since that time The devil has not scar'd me in my dreams So oft as he was wont, when sore with wounds I first was laid upon my bed of pain.

Hex. Ay, that is much; but, noble Woggarwolfe, Thinkest thou not the church doth merit well Some stable gift, some fix'd inheritance? Thou hast those lands that are so nearly join'd Unto St. Alban's abbey.