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And she will tell you it is no such man.
My mind is not at ease. Yet I am going—to my chamber now, Where let me own an undisturb'd half hour Of rumination ;—afterward to her.
SCENE VIII.—The Market-place in front of the Stadt-House. Enter two of VAN DEN Bosch's Officers, dragging a Burgher
between them, and followed by an Executioner with an axe, and a crowd of Citizens. A scaffold is seen at a distance.
Where hast thou put it?
What? Put what-put what?
A few last words—where is it?
Oh, very well! Come, clap his thumb in a winch.
No need of that what is it that
Van Borselen's head. 'Twas sticking on that spike
Thou art next of kin, And rightfully shouldst fill his vacancy.
Thy head to his stands in a just succession.
Friend with the axe, come on.
[Exeunt all but two Citizens.
When will this end ?
When Van den Bosch ...
Hush! Hush !
SCENE IX.—The Entrance-Hall of the House Van Merestyn.
Enter ARTEVELDE, with Attendants.
Bear thou these letters to my steward ; say
(To the rest) I will return alone. If any come To seek me at my house, entreat their stay.
[They withdraw, and a Waiting-Woman enters. This, if I err not, is the pretty wench That waits upon my lady. What, fair maid ! Thy mistress, having comeliness to spare, Hath given thee of it. She's within I think, Or else wert thou a truant.
Sir, she is.
Acquaint her then that I attend her leisure.
To rest beside the fount beneath the tree,
[A pause again. Still for myself, I fear not but that I, Taking what comes, leaving what leave I must, Could make a sturdy struggle through the world. But for the maid, the choice were better far To win her dear heart back again if lost, And stake it upon some less dangerous throw.
My mistress, sir, so please you, takes her walk
For if fate
SCENE X.-A Garden.
ARTEVELDE and ADRIANA.
I have some little overstaid my
time. First let me plead for pardon of that trespass.
ADRIANA. I said to Clara when the sun went down Now if—though truly 'tis impossibleHe come not ere yon blushing cloud grows gray, His promises are no more worth than bubbles. And look how gray it is !
A hectic change. The smiling dawn, the laughing blue-eyed day, The graybeard eve incessantly pass on, Fast fleeting generations born of time And buried in eternity—they pass And not a day resigns its little life And enters into darkness, that can say Lo! I was fair, and such as I have been My issue shall be. LO! I cast abroad Such affluence of glory over earth, That what had been but goodly to the sight Was made magnificent, what had been bare Show'd forth a naked beauty—in all this Was I thus rich, and that which I possess'd To-morrow shall inherit.' False as hope ! To-morrow's heritage is cloud and storm.