MONK.

Benedicite! my son;

LLEWELLYN.

Hush! speak low,
The child is sleeping.

MONK.

Ay! we should speak low
Where Death is, though no sound can ever wake
Those whom he cradles in his bony arms.

LLEWELLYN.

Who speaks of Death in presence of a child!

MONK.

Alas! my son, the bud though ne'er so close
It fold the fragrant treasure of its youth,
Is by the nip of Winter shorn betimes.

LLEWELLYN.

Though Death should grimly stalk into the house,
And stand beside the slumber of a child,