Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/50

Rh Brooding with mocking grin on Paris town: Nor yet where London, Queen of Hypocrites, Hides in a mist of fog and sea-coal smoke, Her splendid squalor and gilded infamy Perchance, where Venice, flaring all with lights, Set like a standish in her shallow seas, Riots throughout a half-year's carnival? Nay, best of all, where yellow Arno brims In one green vineyard plain by the Tuscan town, And cluster'd palaces of the Medici, We'll watch the trees rock 'gainst a golden sky, Swart Cypress, like a distaff for the Fates, Or green bronze flame aspiring silently.

Dreams! Dreams!

(Takes the posset from the hob and drinks it):

That yet shall be reality! But I must rest a little whilst I may.