And spoil our maiden’s pleasure in the woods.
If you’ll not—(To his son.) Now then, Blacklooks, clear your brow!
The word was not ill-meant; and if the King
Forgives the jest, why you can do it too!
So then you’ll take him, Sire? Before the gate
I saw the Roman cohort in your service
And thought this raw-hide lad was just their fellow,
In all, I mean, that touches form and fashion,
As though, within the very mother-womb,
He’d had the thought to stop a gap therein.