Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/42

Rh The blood new coursing thro' my wither'd veins, This old, ill, life all done with.

(Aside):

He's prepared

(To )

At least to die, aye, it may not be long Ere Time smooth out the tangled, twisted thread, The clew that leads us hostel-wards, at night, To rest at that inevitable inn, Where Death is heedless and unhasting host.

Who speaks of Death? I speak of Life made new, I seek a palace in this glorious World A fabrick visible, material, So fair the World, it doth suffice for me, Let others reconcile them to that rest, To lie in the low little house where all is done!