The Sexton.
And where may that be?
The Schoolmaster.
Where, I wonder,
But in the good Mayors' Paradise.
The Sexton.
My learned friend!
The Schoolmaster.
What now?
The Sexton.
A token
Of our fermenting age I hear,
Methinks, in every word you've spoken;
For that it <g>does</g> ferment is clear.
Witness the reverence all refuse
To old-established Wont and Use.
The Schoolmaster.
What moulders, in the mould's its doom,
What rots must nourish what is fresh;
Their vitals canker and consume,
Let them cough up the imposthume,
Or to the grave with their dead flesh!
There's ferment, yes; past fear or hope,
That's plain without a telescope.
The day our ancient Church lay low,
Everything with it seem'd to go
Wherein our life struck root and found
Its home-soil and its native-ground.
The Sexton.
Then on the throng a stillness came.
Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/208
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