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 VI HE overfaithful sword returns the user His heart's desire at price of his heart's blood. The clamour of the arrogant accuser Wastes that one hour we needed to make good. This was foretold of old at our outgoing; This we accepted who have squandered, knowing, The strength and glory of our reputations, At the day's need, as it were dross, to guard The tender and new-dedicate foundations Against the sea we fear—not man's award.

They that dig foundations deep, Fit for realms to rise upon, Little honour do they reap Of their generation, Any more than mountains gain Stature till we reach the plain.

With no veil before their face Such as shroud or sceptre lend— Daily in the market-place, Of one height to foe and friend— They must cheapen self to find Ends uncheapened for mankind. 25