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First Off. I'm mute, my friend: and now I see full plainly How he may lord it o'er a prostrate land, Who trembles in his iron tower the while, With but a surly mastiff for his friend.

Second Off. Nay, do not speak so loud. What men are these Who pass the gate just now? shall we not stop them?

First Off. No, do not trouble them. They are, I guess, Some 'nighted rustics frighten'd with the sky, Who seek the shelter of man's habitation. In such an awful hour men croud together, As gath'ring sea-fowl flock before a storm. With such a welkin blazing o'er our heads, Shall men each other vex? e'en let them pass.

Second Off. See what a crowd of women this way come, With crying children clinging to their knees, And infants in their arms! How now, good matrons? Where do you run?

First Wom. O do not stop us! to Saint Alban's shrine We run: there will we kneel and lift our hands, For that his holy goodness may protect us In this most awful hour.