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128

But I do lack the grace to thank you for it. (Mollo leans on the table and looks sad.)

''Sigur. (to'' Mol.) Good uncle you are sad! Our gen'rous Ethwald Contemns not his domestic station here, Tho' little willing to enrich your walls With spoils of petty war.

''Ethw. (seeing his father sad, and assuming cheerfulness.)'' Nay father, if your heart is set on spoil Let it be Woggarwolfe's that you shall covet, And small persuasion may suffice to tempt me. To plunder him will be no common gain. We feasters love the flesh of well-run game: And faith! the meanest beeve of all his herds Has hoof'd it o'er as many weary miles, With goading pike-men hollowing at his heels, As e'er the bravest antler of the woods. His very muttons, too, are noble beasts, For which contending warriors have fought; And thrifty dames will find their fleece enrich'd With the productions of full many a soil.

Ber. How so, my Ethwald?

Ethw.Countest thou for nought Furze from the upland moors, and bearded down, Torn from the thistles of the sandy plain? The sharp-tooth'd bramble of the shaggy woods And tufted seeds from the dark marsh? Good sooth; She well may triumph in no vulgar skill