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92 Bowing like one decrepid, Wailing as one forlorn ; Would it were skull, not tonsure, That from his brain was shorn ! Credo — non possum, Father. Kyrie — not for me : Gloria — poor excelsis ! Sanctus — if I were free ! Gather his garments deftly, Follow him soft and still ; Envy and hate confess I, Will he absolve ? he will. There is a slothful patience, Brutishness passeth skill.

Close to the Reverend Father ! Well to be Leon this day ! Think of me, brother, my brother, And for thy sister pray.