Gubba. Can you stack hay?
Alfred. No.
Gubba. Why, here’s a fellow! and yet he hath as many pair of hands as his neighbours. Dame, can you employ him in the house? He might lay wood on the fire, and rub the tables.
Gandelin. Let him watch these cakes, then: I must go and milk the kine.
Gubba. And I’ll go and stack the wood, since supper is not ready.
Gandelin. But pray, observe, friend; do not let the cakes burn; turn them often on the hearth.
Alfred. I shall observe your directions.
Alfred alone.
Alfred. For myself, I could bear it: but England, my bleeding country, for thee my heart is wrung with bitter anguish!—From the Humber to the Thames the rivers are stained with blood. My brave soldiers cut to pieces! My poor people—some massacred, others driven from their warm homes, stripped, abused, insulted; and I, whom Heaven appointed their shepherd, unable to rescue my defenceless flock from the ravenous jaws of these devourers! Gracious Heaven! if I am not worthy to save this land from the Danish sword, raise up some other hero to fight with more success than I have done, and let me spend my life in this obscure cottage, in these servile offices: I shall be content if England is happy. O! here come my blunt host and hostess.
Enter Gubba and Gandelin.