Brand.
You think so?
The Mayor.
Think? Nay, man,
That's sure. She's land in every port,
Far as a telescope can scan.
You're rich!
Brand.
'Spite the Succession Court?
The Mayor.
[Smiling.]
What of it? That cuts matters short
When many fight for pelf and debt.
Here no man's interest suffers let.
Brand.
And what if some day, all the same,
Came a coheir to debt and pelf
Crying: "I'm he!" and urged his claim?
The Mayor.
He'd have to be the devil himself!
Just look to me! None else has here
The smallest right to interfere.
I know my business: lean on me!
Well, then; you'll now be well-to-do,
Rich even; you'll no longer brook
Life in this God-forsaken nook;
The whole land's open now to you.
Brand.
Mayor, is not what you want to say,
Pithily put, just: "Go <g>away</g>"?
