A COUNCILLOR

Is all striving over then, fair Master Oliver?

MASTER OLIVER

All mine, lords, for ever! help who may help henceforth
I am but helpless:  too surely meseemeth
He seeth me not, and knoweth no more
Me that have loved him.  Woe worth the while, Pharamond,
That men should love aught, love always as I loved! 
Mother and sister and the sweetling that scorned me,
The wind of the autumn-tide over them sweepeth,
All are departed, but this one, the dear one—­
I should die or he died and be no more alone,
But God’s hatred hangs round me, and the life and the glory
That grew with my waning life fade now before it,
And leaving no pity depart through the void.

A COUNCILLOR

This is a sight full sorry to see
These tears of an elder!  But soft now, one cometh.

MASTER OLIVER

The feet of the king:  will ye speak or begone?

A NORTHERN LORD

I will speak at the least, whoever keeps silence,
For well it may be that the voice of a stranger
Shall break through his dreaming better than thine;
And lo now a word in my mouth is a-coming,
That the king well may hearken:  how sayst thou, fair master,
Whose name now I mind not, wilt thou have me essay it?

MASTER OLIVER

Try whatso thou wilt, things may not be worser. [Enter KING.
Behold, how he cometh weighed down by his woe!

(To the KING)

All hail, lord and master! wilt thou hearken a little
These lords high in honour whose hearts are full heavy
Because thy heart sickeneth and knoweth no joy?—­

(To the COUNCILLORS)

Ah, see you! all silent, his eyes set and dreary,
His lips moving a little—­how may I behold it?

THE NORTHERN LORD

May I speak, king? dost hearken? many matters I have
To deal with or death.  I have honoured thee duly
Down in the north there; a great name I have held thee;
Rough hand in the field, ready righter of wrong,
Reckless of danger, but recking of pity. 
But now—­is it false what the chapmen have told us,
And are thy fair robes all thou hast of a king? 
Is it bragging and lies, that thou beardless and tender
Weptst not when they brought thy slain father before thee,
Trembledst not when the leaguer that lay round thy city
Made a light for these windows, a noise for thy pillow? 
Is it lies what men told us of thy singing and laughter
As thou layst in thy lair fled away from lost battle? 
Is it lies how ye met in the depths of the mountains,