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“No God will answer you to say why not,”
Said one descending heavily but unheard,
And slowly, down the stairs. “And one like me,
Having seen more seasons out than you have seen,
Would say it was tonight your prime intention
To make yourself the sickest man in Cornwall.”
Gouvernail frowned and shivered as he spoke,
And waited as a stranger waits in vain
Outside a door that none within will open.

“I may be that already,” Tristram said,
“But I’m not cold. For I’m a seer tonight,
And consequently full of starry thoughts.
The stars are not so numerous as they were,
But there’s a brotherly white moon up there,
Such as it is. Well, Gouvernail, what word
Has my illustrious and most amorous
And most imperious Uncle Mark prepared
For you to say to me that you come scowling
So far down here to say it? You are next
To nearest, not being my father, of all men
Of whom I am unworthy. What’s the word?”

“Tristram, I left the King annoyed and anxious
On your account, and for the nonce not pleased.”

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