(In a paroxysm of rage.)
You monster! I would I could waken some morning,
And find you had taken French leave without warning;
You should never be sought like Aladdin’s famed palace.
You spoil my sweet temper—you make me bear malice:
For it is a hard fate, I will say it and sing,
Which has fix’d me to gaze on so frightful a thing.
Rhyllon—(with dignified equanimity.)
Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this rage?
This sudden attack on my quiet old age?