Of thinking you stand in a dismal moraine.
Peer.
Well now, with us it’s[it’s] precisely the same.
Our gold will seem to you litter and trash!
And you’ll think, mayhap, every glittering pane
Is nought but a bunch of old stockings and clouts.
The Green-clad One.
Black it seems white, and ugly seems fair.
Peer.
Big it seems little, and dirty seems clean.