O’er yonder home of mine. But tell me, now,
Does every cloud that hovers o’er our heads
Bear in its bosom such a wealth of love?
Sel. Alas! Sir Ethais, we are too few
To work the good that we could wish to work.
Thou hast seen black and angry thunder-clouds
That spit their evil fire at flocks and herds,
And shake with burly laughter as they watch
The trembling shepherds count their shriveled dead?
These are our enemies, sir knight, and thine.