VAN DEN BOSCH. Times are sore changed I see; there's none in Ghent That answers to the name of Artevelde. Thy father did not carp nor question thus When Ghent invoked his aid. The days have been When not a citizen drew breath in Ghent But freely would have died in Freedom's cause. ARTEVELDE. With a good name thou christenest the cause. And wealth from independence, and from wealth The cause, I grant thee, Van den Bosch, is good; But that my whole heart centred in myself, I could have toss'd you this poor life to play with, And send thee word betimes of my conclusion. VAN DEN BOSCH. Betimes it must be; for some two hours hence ARTEVELDE. In two hours, If I be for you, I will send this ring VAN DEN BOSCH. Philip Van Artevelde, a greater man Than ever Ghent beheld we'll make of thee, Fare thee well. ARTEVELDE. [Exit VAN DEN BOSCH. Is it vain-glory which thus whispers me Whose paying off would clear my soul's estate. Enter CLARA. CLARA. Was some one here? I thought I heard you speak. CLARA, Was no one here then? ARTEVELDE. No one, as you see. CLARA. Why then I trust the orator your tongue ARTEVELDE. My fairest, sweetest, best beloved sister! CLARA. Gone! where? what ails you, Philip? ARTEVELDE. Nowhere, my love. Well, what hast thou to tell? CLARA. When I came home, on entering the hall The stork, the stork, the stork! What, he is sick? ARTEVELDE. I remember now, I thought I miss'd his clatter all night long. CLARA. Old Ursel says the sign proved never false Which proved so fatal in the end, and then ARTEVELDE. Sooner or later, something, it is certain, Must bring men to their graves. Is death's forerunner. That puzzles us to fix. Our every act It is but the date My father lived In that ill-omen'd office many a year, I am as wise as he. Enough of this. CLARA. I come thence: She is impatiently expecting you. ARTEVELDE. Can she with such impatience flatter one How mean you? CLARA. ARTEVELDE. Clara, know I not your sex? Is she not one of you? Are you not all, Had I been one of these rash White-Hood chiefs Then might I well believe that she would wait CLARA. There you're wrong; She never loved the White-Hoods. ARTEVELDE. She were wise In that unloving humour to abide : CLARA. Go ask her, Philip,-ask her whom she loves, |