Biographical fiction; Christian fiction; Christian saints -- Fiction; More, Thomas, Saint, 1478-1535 -- Fiction
Poor Wretch, hath this then beene thy Toyl? How
couldst find Time for soe much Labour? for here hath beene Trouble
enow and to spare. Thou must have stolen it, sweet _Meg_, from the
Night, and prevented the Morning Watch. Most dear'st! thy _Father's_
owne loved Child;" and soe, caressing me till I gave over my Shame and
Disappointment.
"I neede not to tell thee, _Meg_," _Father_ sayth, "of the unprofitable
Labour of _Sisyphus_, nor of drawing Water in a Sieve. There are some
Things, most deare one, that a Woman, if she trieth, may doe as well as
a Man; and some she cannot, and some she had better not. Now, I tell
thee firmlie, since the firste Payn is the leaste sharpe, that, despite
the Spiritt and Genius herein shewn, I am avised 'tis Work thou canst
not and Work thou hadst better not doe. But judge for thyselfe; if
thou wilt persist, thou shalt have Leisure and Quiet, and a Chamber in
my new Building, and alle the Help my Gallery of Books may afford. But
thy Father says, Forbear."
Soe, what coulde I say, but "My Father shall never speak to me in vayn."
Then he gathered the Papers up and sayd, "Then I shall take Temptation
out of your Way;" and pressing 'em to his Heart as he did soe, sayth,
"They are as deare to me as they can be to you;" and soe left me,
looking out as though I noted (but I noted not) the cleare-shining
_Thames_. 'Twas Twilighte, and I stoode there I know not how long,
alone and lonely; with Tears coming, I knew not why, into mine Eyes.
There was a Weight in the Ayr, as of coming Thunder; the Screaming,
ever and anon, of _Juno_ and _Argus_, inclined me to Mellancholie,
as it alwaies does: and at length I beganne to note the Moon rising,
and the deepening Clearnesse of the Water, and the lazy Motion of the
Barges, and the Flashes of Light whene'er the Rowers dipt theire Oars.
And then I beganne to attend to the Cries and different Sounds from
acrosse the Water, and the Tolling of a distant Bell; and I felle back
on mine olde heart-sighinge, "_Fecisti nos ad te, Domine; et inquietum
est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te_."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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