At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke, After the Queen was buried; and at eight The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it, Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:-- _Toll!_--From the Palace the Releevants creep,-- A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head An ell of snow-white holland which, some said, Afterwards they might keep, --_Ah, Toll!_--with nine new shillings each to spend, For all the trouble that they had, and all The sorrow of walking to this funeral. _Toll!_--And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed Following, a long procession, two by two, Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du Preau Her French Confessor, unafraid to show The golden Cross that gleamed About his neck, warned what the crowd might do Said _I will wear it, though I die for it!_ So subtle in malice was that Jesuit. _Toll!_--Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field Azure, and under it by a streamer borne Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn Argent and, lower down, A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield, Which seemed to say--I AM SILENT TILL THE END!-- _Toll! Toll!_--IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND! _Toll!_--and a hundred poor old men went by, Followed by two great Bishops.--_Toll, ah toll!_-- Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords; Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; Then, with a Bannerol, Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast. And now--ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls-- That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall, Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by. The Crown Imperial Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires, Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires. _Toll!_ The Chief Mourner--the fair Russell!--_toll!_-- Countess of Bedford--_toll!_--they bring her now, Weeping under a purple Cloth of State, Till, halting there before the Minister Gate, Having in her control The fair White Staves of office, with a bow She gives them to her two great Earls again, Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train.