Red-brown, the light red-brown. Come nearer, boy!
For I would have another look at you.
There’s more likeness, a pale, a stone pale cheek.
What brought you, boy? Have you no fear of death?
Young Man.
Whether I live or die is in the Gods’ hands.
Cuchullain.
That is all words, all words, a young man’s talk;
I am their plough, their harrow, their very strength,
For he that’s in the sun begot this body