PAGE.
Nay, sir ; beyond
The Werra bridge the horses wait for us.
These rotten planks would never bear their weight.
PRINCE WILLIAM.
When I am Landgrave these things shall be cared for.
This is an ugly spot for travellers
To loiter in. How swift the water runs,
Brawling above our voices. Human cries
Woiuld never reach Liborius' convent yonder,
Perched on the sheer, chalk cliff. I think of peril.
From my excess of joy. My spirit chafes.
She that would breast broad-winged the air, must halt
On stumbling mortal limbs. Look, thither, boy.
How the black shadows of the tree-boles stripe
The moon-blanched bridge and meadow.
PAGE.
Sir, what 's that ?
Yon stir and glitter in the bush ?
PRINCE WILLIAM.
The moon.
Pricking the dewdrops, plays fantastic tricks
