I am no parvenu: you and I, my good brother,
Have stood here this century facing each other;
And I can remember the days that are gone,
When your sides were no better array’d than my own.
Nay, the truth shall be told—since you flout me, restore
The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door!
Since my baldness is mocked, and I’m forced to explain,
Pray give me my large laurustinus again.
(With a tone of prophetic solemnity.)
Bronwylfa! Bronwylfa! thus insolent grown,