And a handful rushed down and made nought of an army? 
Those tales of your luck, like the tide at its turning,
Trusty and sure howso slowly it cometh,
Are they lies?  Is it lies of wide lands in the world,
How they sent thee great men to lie low at thy footstool
In five years thenceforward, and thou still a youth? 
Are they lies, these fair tidings, or what see thy lords here—­
Some love-sick girl’s brother caught up by that sickness,
As one street beggar catches the pest from his neighbour?

KING PHARAMOND

What words are these of lies and love-sickness? 
Why am I lonely among all this brawling? 
O foster-father, is all faith departed
That this hateful face should be staring upon me?

THE NORTHERN LORD

Lo, now thou awakest; so tell me in what wise
I shall wend back again:  set a word in my mouth
To meet the folks’ murmur, and give heart to the heavy;
For there man speaks to man that thy measure is full,
And thy five-years-old kingdom is falling asunder.

          [KING draws his sword.

Yea, yea, a fair token thy sword were to send them;
Thou dost well to draw it; (KING brandishes his sword over the
    lord’s head, as if to strike him):  soft sound is its whistle;
Strike then, O king, for my wars are well over,
And dull is the way my feet tread to the grave!

KING PHARAMOND (sheathing his sword)

Man, if ye have waked me, I bid you be wary
Lest my sword yet should reach you; ye wot in your northland
What hatred he winneth who waketh the shipman
From the sweet rest of death mid the welter of waves;
So with us may it fare; though I know thee full faithful,
Bold in field and in council, most fit for a king. 
—­Bear with me.  I pray you that to none may be meted
Such a measure of pain as my soul is oppressed with. 
Depart all for a little, till my spirit grows lighter,
Then come ye with tidings, and hold we fair council,
That my countries may know they have yet got a king.
          [Exeunt all but OLIVER and KING. 
Come, my foster-father, ere thy visage fade from me,
Come with me mid the flowers some opening to find
In the clouds that cling round me; if thou canst remember
Thine old lovingkindness when I was a king.

THE MUSIC

_
Love is enough; it grew up without heeding
  In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure
  And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure
Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding,
  As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.

And what do ye say then?—­that Spring long departed
  Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers;
  —­That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers;
We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted
  Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.