The Doctor.
Ha! loving doves at their caresses
In these dark craggy wildernesses?
Agnes.
My dear old Doctor, here at last!
Come in, come in!
[Runs down and opens the garden gate.
The Doctor.
Ho, not so fast!
We've first to settle an old score.—
What! Tie yourself to this wild moor,
Where piercing winds of winter tear
Like ice, soul, body to the core
Brand.
Not soul.
The Doctor.
Not? Well, I must admit,
That seems about the truth of it.
Your hasty compact has an air
Of standing firm, unmoved, erect,
Though otherwise, one might expect,
By ancient usage, soon to fade
That which so suddenly was made.
Agnes.
A sunbeam's kiss, a bell's note, may
Awaken for a summer's day.
The Doctor.
A patient waits for me. Farewell.
Brand.
<g>My</g> mother?
