There is nothing in the world
That has been friendly to us but the kisses
That were upon our lips, and when we are old
Their memory will be all the life we have.
That has been friendly to us but the kisses
That were upon our lips, and when we are old
Their memory will be all the life we have.
Yeats
When those we love
Speak words unfitting to the ear of kings,
Kind ears are deaf.
FERGUS.
Before you came
I had to threaten these that would have weighed
Some crazy phantasy of their own brain
Or gossip of the road with Conchubar's word.
If I had thought so little of mankind
I never could have moved him to this pardon.
I have believed the best of every man,
And find that to believe it is enough
To make a bad man show him at his best,
Or even a good man swing his lantern higher.
[_NAISI and FERGUS go out. The last words are spoken as
they go through the door. One can see them through part
of what follows, either through door or window. They
move about, talking or looking along the road towards
CONCHUBAR'S house. _
FIRST MUSICIAN.
If anything lies heavy on your heart,
Speak freely of it, knowing it is certain
That you will never see my face again.
DEIRDRE.
You've been in love?
FIRST MUSICIAN.
If you would speak of love,
Speak freely.
There is nothing in the world
That has been friendly to us but the kisses
That were upon our lips, and when we are old
Their memory will be all the life we have.
DEIRDRE.
There was a man that loved me. He was old;
I could not love him. Now I can but fear.
He has made promises, and brought me home;
But though I turn it over in my thoughts,
I cannot tell if they are sound and wholesome,
Or hackles on the hook.
FIRST MUSICIAN.
I have heard he loved you,
As some old miser loves the dragon-stone
He hides among the cobwebs near the roof.
DEIRDRE.
You mean that when a man who has loved like that
Is after crossed, love drowns in its own flood,
And that love drowned and floating is but hate.
And that a king who hates, sleeps ill at night,
Till he has killed, and that, though the day laughs,
We shall be dead at cockcrow.
FIRST MUSICIAN.
You have not my thought.
When I lost one I loved distractedly,
I blamed my crafty rival and not him,
And fancied, till my passion had run out,
That could I carry him away with me,
And tell him all my love, I'd keep him yet.
DEIRDRE.
Ah!