The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

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      Would ride among the arrows with high heart,

      Or scatter with an open hand, had not

      Our heady craft commended wasteful virtues.

      And when that story’s finished, shake your coat

      Where little jewels gleam on it, and say,

      A herdsman, sitting where the pigs had trampled,

      Made up a song about enchanted kings,

      Who were so finely dressed, one fancied them

      All fiery, and women by the churn

      And children by the hearth caught up the song

      And murmured it, until the tailors heard it.

      CHAMBERLAIN.

      If you would but eat something you’d find out

      That you have had these thoughts from lack of food,

      For hunger makes us feverish.

      SEANCHAN.

      Cry aloud,

      That when we are driven out we come again

      Like a great wind that runs out of the waste

      To blow the tables flat; and thereupon

      Lie down upon the threshold till the King

      Restore to us the ancient right of the poets.

      MONK.

      You cannot shake him. I will to the King,

      And offer him consolation in his trouble,

      For that man there has set his teeth to die.

      And being one that hates obedience,

      Discipline, and orderliness of life,

      I cannot mourn him.

      FIRST GIRL.

      ’Twas you that stirred it up.

      You stirred it up that you might spoil our dancing.

      Why shouldn’t we have dancing? We’re not in Lent.

      Yet nobody will pipe or play to us;

      And they will never do it if he die.

      And that is why you are going.

      MONK.

      What folly’s this?

      FIRST GIRL.

      Well, if you did not do it, speak to him—

      Use your authority; make him obey you.

      What harm is there in dancing?

      MONK.

      Hush! begone!

      Go to the fields and watch the hurley players,

      Or any other place you have a mind to.

      This is not woman’s work.

      FIRST GIRL.

      Come! let’s away!

      We can do nothing here.

      MONK.

      The pride of the poets!

      Dancing, hurling, the country full of noise,

      And King and Church neglected. Seanchan,

      I’ll take my leave, for you are perishing

      Like all that let the wanton imagination

      Carry them where it will, and it’s not likely

      I’ll look upon your living face again.

      SEANCHAN.

      Come nearer, nearer!

      MONK.

      Have you some last wish?

      SEANCHAN.

      Stoop down, for I would whisper it in your ear.

      Has that wild God of yours, that was so wild

      When you’d but lately taken the King’s pay,

      Grown any tamer? He gave you all much trouble.

      MONK.

      Let go my habit!

      SEANCHAN.

      Have you persuaded him

      To chirp between two dishes when the King

      Sits down to table?

      MONK.

      Let go my habit, sir!

      [Crosses to centre of stage.

      SEANCHAN.

      And maybe he has learnt to sing quite softly

      Because loud singing would disturb the King,

      Who is sitting drowsily among his friends

      After the table has been cleared. Not yet!

      [SEANCHAN has been dragged some feet clinging to the MONK’S habit.

      You did not think that hands so full of hunger

      Could hold you tightly. They are not civil yet.

      I’d know if you have taught him to eat bread

      From the King’s hand, and perch upon his finger.

      I think he perches on the King’s strong hand.

      But it may be that he is still too wild.

      You must not weary in your work; a king

      Is often weary, and he needs a God

      To be a comfort to him.

      [The MONK plucks his habit away and goes into palace. SEANCHAN holds up his hand as if a bird perched upon it. He pretends to stroke the bird.

      A little God,

      With comfortable feathers, and bright eyes.

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