But I am labouring
For some that shall be born in the nick o’ time,
And find sweet nurture, that they may have voices,
Even in anger, like the strings of harps;
And how could they be born to majesty
If I had never made the golden cradle?
YOUNGEST PUPIL.
[Throwing himself at SEANCHAN’S feet.]
Why did you take me from my father’s fields?
If you would leave me now, what shall I love?
Where shall I go? What shall I set my hand to?