And who makes grasp for that—One does so now;
Why yes, a Boy does so, a Marvellous Boy—
He Whom the Prophets have long been announcing
And Whom e’en now a star lights into life.
But, Fate, thy reckoning is sore at fault
If thou, in trampling me with iron foot,
A piecemeal thing, hast thought to smooth His course.
A soldier I; myself will fight with thee
And, as I lie, will bite thee in the heel.
(Sharply.) Joab!