I
The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men, MORRIS and HAMISH.
Hamish.
Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,
Or drink, at least.
Morris.
I'm wondering about Love.
Hamish. Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?
Morris.
I'm not in love; but altogether posed
I am by lovers.
Hamish. They're a simple folk: I'm one.
Morris.
It's you I'm mainly thinking of.
Hamish. Why, that's an honour, surely.
Morris.
Now if I loved
The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes
Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues;
And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil
Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take!)—