XXIX.

“Still was false Marmion’s bridal stayed: To Whitby’s convent fled the maid, The hated match to shun. ‘Ho! shifts she thus?’ King Henry cried; ‘Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, If she were sworn a nun.’ One way remained—the King’s command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land: I lingered here, and rescue planned For Clara and for me: This caitiff monk, for gold, did swear, He would to Whitby’s shrine repair, And, by his drugs, my rival fair A saint in heaven should be. But ill the dastard kept his oath, Whose cowardice has undone us both.