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Fair damsel, I am happy in the fortune
On my soul, I blush to hear it said ; though true it is I have perform'd what little in me lay To bring renown to Flemish chivalry. I give to God the glory; and next Him 'Tis due to her whose charms would kindle valour In the most coldest heart of Christendom.
Whoe'er inspired your valour, your exploits
Your pardon, lady; Some other trifle's in your thoughts; at Sas There is no fort, and they who perish'd there Were but three hundred peasants who were burn'd By firing of a barn to which they'd fled.
Ah, was it so ? At Zeveren then surely
What happen'd there too, was of no account.
Oh, pardon me; the modesty which still
Was taken by surprise.
Ay, true, and then The garrison that made themselves so strong Within the convent's walls—
There was no garrison.
You say not so? How false is Fame! I'm certain I was told Of a great slaughter in the convent there.
OCCO. True; a proportion of the sisterhood Met with mishap. But, lady, by your leave We'll treat of other things. Haply you know not The usages of war, and scarce approve Proceedings which its hard necessities Will oft-times force upon us warriors. A softer theme were meeter, and there's one On which I burn to speak.
(Exeunt CLARA and Page.
A merry lady Your friend appears; but now that she is gone, I must entreat your hearing for a word Of graver import-grave, if aught imports The life or death of this poor heart of mine. A burning fiery furnace is this heart; I waste like wax before a witch's fire, Whilst but one word from thee would make earth heaven, And I must soon be nothing or a god ! There's an unutterable want and void, A gulf, a craving, and a sucking in, As when a mighty ship goes down at sea. I roam about with hunger-bitten heart, A famine in my bosom- -a dry heat, A desperate thirst, and I must glut it now, Or like a dog by summer solstice parch'd I shall go mad.
O no, my lord, your pardon ;
Nay, lady, nay: Deem that I've been tormented long enough And let this coyness have a timely end.
I am not coy, and plainly now to speak (When aught but plainness should be less than just) I cannot be your wife.
And wherefore so ?
all Which it can profit you to know.
I see it clearly; there's some smooth-tongued knave
In charity I never will speak more
that abets him. This to me!
Thanks, gentle lady! Thanks, kind, loving soul !
SCENE III.-The Stadt-House.
Enter MYK STEENSEL, followed by several Burghers.
And who is Van den Bosch, resolve me that:
Or Ackerman, or Launoy, who are they ?
I say, sirs, if our goods be not our own,
Why, look you, sirs, our case stands simply here :