The Mayor.
If you lose,
Your life's irreparably marr'd.
All this world's bounties you possess,
You, a rich Mother's only heir,
With wife and child to be your care,—
It was a kindly hand, confess,
That dealt <g>your</g> terms of happiness!
Brand.
And what if I should, all the same,
Reject these terms? and <g>must</g>?
The Mayor.
Your game
Is over, if you've once unfurl'd
In this last cranny of the world
The standard of your world-wide war.
Turn southward, to yon prosperous shore
Where a man dares lift up his head;
There you may perorate of right
And bid them bleed and bid them fight;
<g>Our</g> bloodshed is the sweat we pour
In daily wringing rocks for bread.
Brand.
Here I remain. My home is here!
And here the battle-flag I'll rear.
The Mayor.
Think what you lose, if overthrown,
And, chiefly, think of what you quit!
Brand.
Myself I lose, if I submit.
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