18  
WHY JESUS WEPT. 
None, not the wisest, may foretell.  I fear 
A moment’s mischief may destroy these years 
Of grave solicitude, their work.  This boy 
Thinks his grey father dead.  These words (tapping a letter) shall speak 
Even from the tomb.  These words shall be obeyed 
By force of ancient habit :  these give me 
Supreme authority to exercise 
By stealth, not overt till the hour be come 
When madness seats herself upon the lad, 
And he turn serpent on his friends.  But no ! 
There is too strong a discipline of sense, 
Too cool a brain, too self-controlled a heart : — 
Well, we shall see. 
Turns to his books. 
 
 
 
SCENE V 
 
 
SIR PERCY PERCIVALE, on Wastwater. 
 
 
God, I have rowed ! 
My hands are one blister ; 
By arms are one ache ; 
But my brain is a fire, 
As erst on the fell, 
In the hall ; let me dive 
To the under-abode, 
Where the sweet-voiced sister