I could half worship such a tameless woman,
All shrewish though she be. With what a spirit,
Like thunder-riven cloud, her wrath poured forth,
And keen words flared! Ugly and old?—to that
I shall say nay hereafter. Autumn moons
Portend good harvests. Yet, that glance at parting
Flashed fierce as sunset through a blasted tree!
But hey! look yonder, Wyatt: half your men
Are scampering after her.
Wyatt. I marked, and blame not.