Nay not so, my fosterer:  thy hope yet shall fail thee
If thou lookest to see me turned back from my folly,
Lamenting and mocking the life of my longing. 
Many such have I had, dear dreams and deceitful,
When the soul slept a little from all but its search,
And lied to the body of bliss beyond telling;
Yea, waking had lied still but for life and its torment. 
Not so were those dreams of the days of my kingship,
Slept my body—­or died—­but my soul was not sleeping,
It knew that she touched not this body that trembled
At the thought of her body sore trembling to see me;
It lied of no bliss as desire swept it onward,
Who knows through what sundering space of its prison;
It saw, and it heard, and it hoped, and was lonely,
Had no doubt and no joy, but the hope that endureth. 
—­Woe’s me I am weary:  wend we forward to-morrow?

MASTER OLIVER

Yea, well it may be if thou wilt but be patient,
And rest thee a little, while time creepeth onward.

KING PHARAMOND

But tell me, has the fourth year gone far mid my sickness?

MASTER OLIVER

Nay, for seven days only didst thou lie here a-dying,
As full often I deemed:  God be thanked it is over! 
But rest thee a little, lord; gather strength for the striving.

KING PHARAMOND

Yea, for once again sleep meseems cometh to struggle
With the memory of times past:  come tell thou, my fosterer,
Of the days we have fared through, that dimly before me
Are floating, as I look on thy face and its trouble.

MASTER OLIVER

Rememberest thou aught of the lands where we wended?

KING PHARAMOND

Yea, many a thing—­as the moonlit warm evening
When we stayed by the trees in the Gold-bearing Land,
Nigh the gate of the city, where a minstrel was singing
That tale of the King and his fate, o’er the cradle
Foretold by the wise of the world; that a woman
Should win him to love and to woe, and despairing
In the last of his youth, the first days of his manhood.

MASTER OLIVER

I remember the evening; but clean gone is the story: 
Amid deeds great and dreadful, should songs abide by me?

KING PHARAMOND