I’ th’ land to which for ages it hath been
A battle-word, as ’twere some passing note
Of shepherd-music? Must this work be done,
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought
Can so be thrill’d no longer?
A Cit. ’Tis e’en so!
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us,
Our hearts beat faint and low.
Xim. Are ye so poor