MONK.
A longer sleep, whose waking is not here!
Poor soul! that, catching at the skirts of Truth.
Muffleth his eyes that he may see her not.
MORGAN.
Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubt
That lays its stony spell upon his heart,
Is sadder far than tears—
MONK.
It is mine office
Still to bear balm unto the bleeding heart;
Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.
[They pass in.
II.—In the Chamber.
LLEWELLYN and MONK.