Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/93

 Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed Few men would care do now, and this is gain To me, as ease and money is to you. Moreover, too, I like the straining game Of striving well to hold up things that fall; So one becomes great; see you! in good times All men live well together, and you, too, Live dull and happy — happy? not so quick, Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up? Why then, but just to fight as I do now, A halter round my neck, would be great bliss. O! I am well off. [Aside. Talk, and talk, and talk, I know this man has come to murder me, And yet I talk still.

If your side were right, You might be, though you lost ; but if I said, "You are a traitor, being, as you are, Born Frenchman." What are Edwards unto you, Or Richards?

Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold! For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, Don't call me traitor.

Furthermore, my knight, Men call you slippery on your losing side, When at Bordeaux I was ambassador, I heard them say so, and could scarce say "Nay". [He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises.