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SCENE.-Würzburg; a garden in the environs. 1512.
FESTUS, PARACELSUS, MICHAL.
Paracelsus. Come close to me, dear friends; still
Close to the heart which, though long time roll by
All fitful strange and moody waywardness
Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves.
Paracelsus. Drop by drop! she is weeping like a
Not so! I am content-more than content;
Nay, autumn wins you best by this its mute
Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less
Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down,
Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit,
That apple-tree with a rare after-birth
Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among!
Sequestered nest!—this kingdom, limited
Grey crickets and shy lizards and quick spiders,
Which, look through near, this way, and it appears
A stubble-field or a cane-brake, a marsh
Michal. In truth we have lived carelessly and well. Paracelsus. And shall, my perfect pair!-each, trust me, born
For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed,
Is of one hue. For where save in this nook
Shall you two walk, when I am far away,
And wish me prosperous fortune? Stay: that plant
As a queen's languid and imperial arm
Which scatters crowns among her lovers, but you
Some great success! Ah see, the sun sinks broad