Had fortune my last hope betray'd, This packet, to the King convey'd, Had given him to the headsman's stroke, Although my heart that instant broke.-
Now, men of death, work forth your will, 565 For I can suffer, and be still; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last.
XXXI. 'Yet dread me, from my living tomb, Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome! 570
If Marmion's late remorse should wake, Full soon such vengeance will he take, That you shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been your guest again.”