The Old Man.
In your left eye, first,
I'll scratch you a bit, till you see awry;
But all that you see will seem fine and brave.
And then I'll just cut your right window-pane out
Peer.
Are you drunk?
The Old Man.
[Lays a number of sharp instruments on the table.]
See, here are the glazier's tools.
Blinkers you'll wear, like a raging bull.
Then you'll recognise that your bride is lovely,—
And ne'er will your vision be troubled, as now,
With bell-cows harping and sows that dance.
Peer.
This is madman's talk!
The Oldest Courtier.
It's the Dovrë-King speaking;
'Tis he that is wise, and 'tis you that are crazy!
The Old Man.
Just think how much worry and mortification
You'll thus escape from, year out, year in.
You must remember, your eyes are the fountain
Of the bitter and searing lye of tears.
Peer.
That's true; and it says in our sermon-book:
If thine eye offend thee, then pluck it out.
But tell me, when will my sight heal up
Into human sight?
