XII.

‘ O sweet wife, I suffer sore — O methinks aye more and more Dull my day, my courage numb, Shadows from the night to come.

But no counsel, hope, nor aid Is to give; a crown being made Power and rule, yea all good things Yet to hang on this same weird

I must dree it, ever that brings Chastening from the white-witch feared. O that dreams mote me forsake, Would that man could alway wake.’