Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?

All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

Tis Fate that flings the dice,And as she flingsOf kings makes peasants,And of peasants kings.

In the first play, the crisis is Thomas More. In the second it__ Anne Boleyn. In the third book, and the third play, it__ crisis every day, an overlapping series of only just negotiable horrors. It__ climbing and climbing. Then a sudden abrupt fall - within days.

To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge

Whatever is, is in its causes just;But purblind manSees but a part o' th' chain; the nearest link;His eyes not carrying to that equal beamThat poises all above.