His gods of wood? Their feet, alas! are slow
To go to help, which must be helped to go:
Honours, great worth? Ah! little worth they be
Unto their owners:—Wit? That makes him see
He wanted wit, who thought he had it, wanting Thee.
Giles Fletcher.
O save me, Power
Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour!
Thou, who beneath the frowns of fate hath stood,