The rod that man may wield No man may fear: the slave who fears it is not Man.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Art thou crazed with wine?

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

Am I thy king?

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

My thrall thou knowest thou art not, or thy tongue Durst challenge not mine anger.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Thrall and free, Woman and man, yea, queen and king, are born More wide apart than earth or hell and heaven. Sirs, let no wrangling breath distune the peace That shines and glows about us, and discerns A banquet from a battle. Thou, my lord, Hast bidden away the dust of death which fell Between us at thy bidding, and is now Nothing—a dream blown out at waking. Thou, My lord’s young chosen of warriors, be not wroth, Albeit thy wrath be noble, though my lord See fit to try my love as gold is tried By fire: it burns not thee. Strike hand in hand: Ye have done so after battle.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Drink again. I pledge thee, boy.

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

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