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But be she who she may, This stranger here; I doubt not, friend, ere long, We shall have bickering for her in the field With some fierce foe or other.

So I trust: And by my honest faith! this peace of ours Right long and tiresome is.—I thought, ere now, Some of our restless neighbours would have trespass'd And inroads made: but no; Argyll and Lorne Have grown a terror to them: all is quiet; And we ourselves must the aggressors be, Or still this dull and slothful life endure, Which makes our men of three-score years and ten To fret and murmur.

A lady here, would see my Lord of Lorne.

Yes, still to him they come.(Looking at Rosa.)