Fergus, the son of Leide Lithe-o’-limb,
Ere yet he reigned at Eman, did dwell here.
Deirdre.
What, Fergus Wry-mouth? I have heard of him,
And how he came by his ill-favoured name.
Methinks I see him when he rose again
From combat with the monster, and his face,
That had that blemish till love wiped it off,
Serene and ample-featured like a King.
Illan.
Not love but anger, made him fight the beast.
Deirdre.
No, no, I will not have it anger. Love
Prompts every deed heroic. ’Tis the fault
Of him who did compose the tale at first,
Not to have shown ’twas love unblemished him.
. . . . . .
Fergus.
All Erin, shore to shore, shall ring with it
And poets in the ages yet to come
Make tales of wonder of it for the world.