'And now my tongue the secret tells,
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560
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.