STRANGER.
There.
POSTILLION.
Many thanks. (Exit.)
STRANGER.
Shall I succeed in finding her? Oh, how all my thoughts turn to my beloved native shore! How can I endure the sight, when once more I view it?—when the past, with all its joys and pains, passes before my inner vision? Ah, thou poor mortal! what callest thou the past? For thee there is no present. Between the times that are flown and the future thou clingest to a little moment, and joys flit past thee, and do not so much as touch thy heart.
INNKEEPER.
If I may be permitted to ask, I take it your grace is from some old worm-eaten drama that some unknown author has modernised a bit?
STRANGER.
What say you?