Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/121

 The spirit you're ready to own with your lips, But in fact nothing counts that your fists cannot handle. So you really think, then, that lust matters nought? Wait; you shall soon have ocular proof of it

You don't catch me with a bait of lies!

My Peer, ere the year's out, your child will be born.

Open doors! let me go!

In a he-goat's skin. You shall have the brat after you.

[Mopping the sweat off his brow.]

Would I could waken!

Shall we send him to the palace?

You can send him to the parish!

Well well, Prince Peer; that's your own look-out. But one thing's certain, what's done is done; And your offspring, too, will be sure to grow; Such mongrels shoot up amazingly fast