'Still was false Marmion's bridal staid;
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, 545
If she were sworn a nun."
One way remain'd--the King's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land!
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd
For Clara and for me: 550
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, 555
Whose cowardice has undone us both.