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The Thief.
[Folds his arms over his breast.]
My father he thieved; So his son must be thieving. The Receiver. My father received; Still his son is receiving.[1] The Thief. Thy lot shalt thou bear still; Thyself shalt thou be still. The Receiver.
[Listening.]
Steps in the brushwood! Flee, flee! But where? The Thief. The cavern is deep, And the Prophet great!
[They make off, leaving the booty behind them. The horsemen gradually disappear in the distance.
Peer Gynt.
[Enters, cutting a reed whistle.]
What a delectable morning-tide!—
The dung-beetle's rolling his ball in the dust;
The snail creeps out of his dwelling-house.
The morning; ay, it has gold in its mouth.—
It's a wonderful power, when you think of it,
- ↑ This is not to be taken as a burlesque instance of the poet's
supposed preoccupation with questions of heredity, but simply
as an allusion to the fact that, in the East, thieving and
receiving are regular and hereditary professions.
