Hud. Men have said
I pile up gold because its glitter soothes
A fever in my eyes. The clacking fools!
I am no Cheops making warts on earth.
No mummy brain! God built my pyramids,
Slaving through dark and chaos till there rose
My iron-hearted hills, and mountains locked
On ago-unyielded treasure waiting me.
There slept my gems till longing became fire
And broke the grip of stone,—there lay my gold,
Re-purged each thousand years till baited Time
Gave up the master's hour.
[Hernda has come from the grove and moves up to his side]
Her. [Adoringly] And you the master!
Hud. Daughter, you owe my lord Megario
Some pretty thanks.
Her. I give them, sir.
Meg. No, no!
I pray your Highness, no! My thanks to earth
That bears the flower of you, and to the light
That makes my eyes your beauty's treasurer.
But thanks from you to me, as jewels hung
Upon a beggar's neck, would set my rags
Unkindly in the sun.
Her. Then I am not
Your debtor?
Meg. Mine the debt, that mounts too fast
For feeble payment from thin purse of words.
Ah, every moment adds a suitor hope
To th' bankrupts in my heart.
Her. I fear, my lord,
Your coiner's name is Fancy, and I like
Truth's mintage best. [To her father]
What is this debt of mine,
So languished that a word of thanks may be
Its slender cover?
Meg. A word, if beauty speak it,
May mantle a bare world.