I beynge nowe offe sounde Mynde doe hope thatte thys mye wyshe wille, att mye deathe, bee acceded toe, as I nowe lyve in Londonne, and as mye soule maye perchance, soone quittee thys poore bodye, itte is mye desire thatte inne suche case I maye bee carryed toe mye native place, ande thatte mye Bodye bee there quietlye interred wythe as little pompe as canne bee, and I doe nowe, inne these mye seryouse moments, make thys mye professione of faythe, and which I doe moste solemnlye believe. I doe fyrste looke toe oune lovynge and Greate God and toe his glorious sonne Jesus. I doe alsoe beleyve thatte thys mye weake and frayle Bodye wille returne to duste, butte for mye soule lette God judge thatte as toe himselfe shalle seeme meete. O omnipotente and greate God I am fulle offe synne, I doe notte thinke myeselfe worthye offe thye grace and yette wille I hope, forre evene thee poore prysonerre whenne bounde with gallying irons evene he wille hope for Pittye and whenne the teares of sweete repentance bathe hys wretched pillowe he then looks and hopes for pardonne thenne rouse mye soule and lette hope, thatte sweete cherysher offe all, afforde thee comforte also. O Manne whatte arte thou whye consideres thou thyselfe thus gratelye, where are thye great, thye boasted attrybutes; buryed, loste forre everre in colde Death. O Manne whye attemptest thou toe searche the greatnesse off the Almyghtye thou doste butte loose thye laboure. More thou attempteste, more arte thou loste, tille thye poore weake thoughtes arre elevated toe theyre summite and thenne as snowe from the leffee tree droppe and dystylle themselves tille theye are noe more. O God, manne as I am frayle bye nature, fulle offe synne, yette great God receyve me toe thye bosomme where alle is sweete contente and happyness alle is blyss where dyscontente isse neverre hearde, butte where oune Bonde offe freyndeshippe unytes alle Menne forgive O Lorde alle our synnes, ande withe thye greate goodnesse take usse alle toe thye Breaste; O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings Receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge overre themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye. Wm. Shakespeare. Margaret finished the perusal of the MS. before her uncle; her quicker and more youthful eye would probably have done so in any case, but his reverence for the matter forbade rapid reading; she waited respectfully, but also with some little apprehension, for the expression of his opinion. ‘This is a godsend!’ he exclaimed at last, with a sigh that had almost as much relief as satisfaction in it. ‘There can be no longer any doubt about Shakespeare’s creed. Is it not beautiful, and full of humility, my child?’ ‘Yes, uncle.’ She knew that the least fault-finding would be resented, yet she could not shut out from her tone a certain feeling of disappointment; ‘it is hardly, however, so simple as I should have expected.’