ALBOVINE.
My thrall thou knowest thou art not, or thy tongue
Durst challenge not mine anger.
ROSAMUND.
Thrall and free,
Woman and man, yea, queen and king, are born
More wide apart than earth or hell and heaven.
Sirs, let no wrangling breath distune the peace
That shines and glows about us, and discerns
A banquet from a battle. Thou, my lord,
Hast bidden away the dust of death which fell
Between us at thy bidding, and is now
Nothing—a dream blown out at waking. Thou,
My lord’s young chosen of warriors, be not wroth,
Albeit thy wrath be noble, though my lord
See fit to try my love as gold is tried
By fire: it burns not thee. Strike hand in hand:
Ye have done so after battle.
ALBOVINE.
Drink again.
I pledge thee, boy.
ALMACHILDES.
I pledge thee, king.
ROSAMUND.
My lord,
I am weary at heart, and fain would sleep. Forgive me
That I can sit no more.