In thinking is "the winged thought,"—
That is to say—the thought that flutters.
Farewell.
[Taking his hat.]
I have to see the band.
Brand.
The what?
The Mayor.
Just think, within our land
This morning two of us laid hand
On a foul-favour'd gipsy-horde,
So I got help with rope and cord,
And now they're in your neighbour's ward
Next to the North, but—devil clip me!—
If just a couple didn't slip me
Brand.
The bells are ringing: Peace to Men.
The Mayor.
Why came this hell-brood hither, then?
Yet in a sense, they are, 'tis true,
Kin to this parish,—
[Laughing.]
Nay to you.
Hark to a riddle; read it right,
If you have power and appetite.
There be, who in effect derive
From her, by whom you are alive,
But owe their actual origin
To coming of another kin.
Brand.
[Shaking his head.]
O God, so many riddles rise
Before our baffled, helpless eyes!
