Now God be good to me in this wild pilgrimage!
All hope in human aid I cast behind me.
Oh, who would be a woman?--who that fool,
A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman?
She hath hard measure still where she hopes kindest,
And all her bounties only make ingrates.
LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE.

The summer evening was closed, and Janet, just when her longer stay
might have occasioned suspicion and inquiry in that zealous household,
returned to Cumnor Place, and hastened to the apartment in which she
had left her lady. She found her with her head resting on her arms, and
these crossed upon a table which stood before her. As Janet came in, she
neither looked up nor stirred.

Her faithful attendant ran to her mistress with the speed of lightning,
and rousing her at the same time with her hand, conjured the Countess,
in the most earnest manner, to look up and say what thus affected
her. The unhappy lady raised her head accordingly, and looking on her
attendant with a ghastly eye, and cheek as pale as clay--"Janet," she
said, "I have drunk it."

"God be praised!" said Janet hastily--"I mean, God be praised that it is
no worse; the potion will not harm you. Rise, shake this lethargy from
your limbs, and this despair from your mind."

"Janet," repeated the Countess again, "disturb me not--leave me at
peace--let life pass quietly. I am poisoned."