ROSAURA. There, four-footed Fury, blast...

ROSAURA. There, four-footed Fury, blast

Engender'd brute, without the wit

Of brute, or mouth to match the bit

Of man—art satisfied at last?

Who, when thunder roll'd aloof,

Tow'rd the spheres of fire your ears

Pricking, and the granite kicking

Into lightning with your hoof,

Among the tempest-shatter'd crags

Shattering your luckless rider

Back into the tempest pass'd?

There then lie to starve and die,

Or find another Phaeton

Mad-mettled as yourself; for I,

Wearied, worried, and for-done,

Alone will down the mountain try,

That knits his brows against the sun.

FIFE (as to his mule). There, thou mis-begotten thing,

Long-ear'd lightning, tail'd tornado,

Griffin-hoof-in hurricano,

(I might swear till I were almost

Hoarse with roaring Asonante)

Who forsooth because our betters

Would begin to kick and fling

You forthwith your noble mind

Must prove, and kick me off behind,

Tow'rd the very centre whither

Gravity was most inclined.

There where you have made your bed

In it lie; for, wet or dry,

Let what will for me betide you,

Burning, blowing, freezing, hailing;

Famine waste you: devil ride you:

Tempest baste you black and blue:

(To Rosaura.)

There! I think in downright railing

I can hold my own with you.

ROS. Ah, my good Fife, whose merry loyal pipe,

Come weal, come woe, is never out of tune

What, you in the same plight too?

FIFE. Ay; And madam—sir—hereby desire,

When you your own adventures sing

Another time in lofty rhyme,

You don't forget the trusty squire

Who went with you Don-quixoting.

ROS. Well, my good fellow—to leave Pegasus

Who scarce can serve us than our horses worse—

They say no one should rob another of

The single satisfaction he has left

Of singing his own sorrows; one so great,

So says some great philosopher, that trouble

Were worth encount'ring only for the sake

Of weeping over—what perhaps you know

Some poet calls the 'luxury of woe.'

FIFE. Had I the poet or philosopher

In the place of her that kick'd me off to ride,

I'd test his theory upon his hide.

But no bones broken, madam—sir, I mean?—

ROS. A scratch here that a handkerchief will heal—

And you?—

FIFE. A scratch in quiddity, or kind:

But not in 'quo'—my wounds are all behind.

But, as you say, to stop this strain,

Which, somehow, once one's in the vein,

Comes clattering after—there again!—

What are we twain—deuce take't!—we two,

I mean, to do—drench'd through and through—

Oh, I shall choke of rhymes, which I believe

Are all that we shall have to live on here.

ROS. What, is our victual gone too?—

FIFE. Ay, that brute

Has carried all we had away with her,

Clothing, and cate, and all.

ROS. And now the sun,

Our only friend and guide, about to sink

Under the stage of earth.

FIFE. And enter Night,

With Capa y Espada—and—pray heaven!

With but her lanthorn also.

ROS. Ah, I doubt

To-night, if any, with a dark one—or

Almost burnt out after a month's consumption.

Well! well or ill, on horseback or afoot,

This is the gate that lets me into Poland;

And, sorry welcome as she gives a guest

Who writes his own arrival on her rocks

In his own blood—

Yet better on her stony threshold die,

Than live on unrevenged in Muscovy.

FIFE. Oh, what a soul some women have—I mean

Some men—

ROS. Oh, Fife, Fife, as you love me, Fife,

Make yourself perfect in that little part,

Or all will go to ruin!

FIFE. Oh, I will,

Please God we find some one to try it on.

But, truly, would not any one believe

Some fairy had exchanged us as we lay

Two tiny foster-children in one cradle?

ROS. Well, be that as it may, Fife, it reminds me

Of what perhaps I should have thought before,

But better late than never—You know I love you,

As you, I know, love me, and loyally

Have follow'd me thus far in my wild venture.

Well! now then—having seen me safe thus far

Safe if not wholly sound—over the rocks

Into the country where my business lies

Why should not you return the way we came,

The storm all clear'd away, and, leaving me

(Who now shall want you, though not thank you, less,

Now that our horses gone) this side the ridge,

Find your way back to dear old home again;

While I—Come, come!—

What, weeping my poor fellow?

FIFE. Leave you here

Alone—my Lady—Lord! I mean my Lord—

In a strange country—among savages—

Oh, now I know—you would be rid of me

For fear my stumbling speech—

ROS. Oh, no, no, no!—

I want you with me for a thousand sakes

To which that is as nothing—I myself

More apt to let the secret out myself

Without your help at all—Come, come, cheer up!

And if you sing again, 'Come weal, come woe,'

Let it be that; for we will never part

Until you give the signal.

FIFE. 'Tis a bargain.

ROS. Now to begin, then. 'Follow, follow me,

'You fairy elves that be.'

FIFE. Ay, and go on—

Something of 'following darkness like a dream,'

For that we're after.

ROS. No, after the sun;

Trying to catch hold of his glittering skirts

That hang upon the mountain as he goes.

FIFE. Ah, he's himself past catching—as you spoke

He heard what you were saying, and—just so—

Like some scared water-bird,

As we say in my country, dove below.

ROS. Well, we must follow him as best we may.

Poland is no great country, and, as rich

In men and means, will but few acres spare

To lie beneath her barrier mountains bare.

We cannot, I believe, be very far

From mankind or their dwellings.

FIFE. Send it so!

And well provided for man, woman, and beast.

No, not for beast. Ah, but my heart begins

To yearn for her—

ROS. Keep close, and keep your feet

From serving you as hers did.

FIFE. As for beasts,

If in default of other entertainment,

We should provide them with ourselves to eat—

Bears, lions, wolves—

ROS. Oh, never fear.

FIFE. Or else,

Default of other beasts, beastlier men,

Cannibals, Anthropophagi, bare Poles

Who never knew a tailor but by taste.

ROS. Look, look! Unless my fancy misconceive

With twilight—down among the rocks there, Fife—

Some human dwelling, surely—

Or think you but a rock torn from the rocks

In some convulsion like to-day's, and perch'd

Quaintly among them in mock-masonry?

FIFE. Most likely that, I doubt.

ROS. No, no—for look!

A square of darkness opening in it—

FIFE. Oh, I don't half like such openings!—

ROS. Like the loom

Of night from which she spins her outer gloom—

FIFE. Lord, Madam, pray forbear this tragic vein

In such a time and place—

ROS. And now again

Within that square of darkness, look! a light

That feels its way with hesitating pulse,

As we do, through the darkness that it drives

To blacken into deeper night beyond.

FIFE. In which could we follow that light's example,

As might some English Bardolph with his nose,

We might defy the sunset—Hark, a chain!

ROS. And now a lamp, a lamp! And now the hand

That carries it.

FIFE. Oh, Lord! that dreadful chain!

ROS. And now the bearer of the lamp; indeed

As strange as any in Arabian tale,

So giant-like, and terrible, and grand,

Spite of the skin he's wrapt in.

FIFE. Why, 'tis his own:

Oh, 'tis some wild man of the woods; I've heard

They build and carry torches—

ROS. Never Ape

Bore such a brow before the heavens as that—

Chain'd as you say too!—

FIFE. Oh, that dreadful chain!

ROS. And now he sets the lamp down by his side,

And with one hand clench'd in his tangled hair

And with a sigh as if his heart would break—

Calderon de la Barca, Pedro. La Vida es Sueno (Life is a Dream). Trans. Edward Fitzgerald. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2587/2587-h/2587-h.htm