From her by whom you are alive;
For the first cause of all the brood
Was, that he loved and she withstood.
Brand.
Advise me, Mayor; can you tell
Some means of giving them relief?
The Mayor.
Tut, clap them in a Bridewell cell.
They're overhead in debt to hell;
To save them were to play the thief
With Satan, who will lose his trade
If earth restore not what he made.
Brand.
You plann'd to build a house, to better
This naked misery and dearth
The Mayor.
That plan was, by its own begetter,
Slain in the moment of its birth.
Brand.
If after all though—it were well
The Mayor.
[Smiling.]
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.
[Clapping him on the shoulder.]
What's buried, leave it in the ground
Man must not dash his deed with doubt.
Farewell, farewell, I can't remain,
I must be off and scour the fell,
To seek this nest of truants out.
A merry <g>Yule</g>! We'll meet again!
My greetings to your wife. Farewell! [Goes.
