Haunted our dwelling ever. In the wars,
I have been sick with longing and half-faith,
Last year and this; that prickle has lived on,
Till every natural mirth is dead in me.
In the shunned name of Christ, I know not how,
Some harvest of mine innermost desire
Is sown, is springing up. Art satisfied,
Father who servest Jove?
Cratidas. Accursèd creed!—
Sir, there my hasty tongue spake for my heart.