Still murmuring at their fate, still to the king
They roll their troubles like a surging sea.
Has England, then, a tongue but not a sting?
Do all complain, yet will none righted be?
Godwin.—
Await the time when God will send us aid.
Harold.—
Must we, then, drowse away the weary hours?
I'll free my country, or I'll die in fight.
Godwin.—