The sun is set: the harsh horizon's line,
Untrodden by nor tram nor pulley-car,
Is cut by fair Selene's rising-glow:
The day which fates shall undergo a change
Inexorably shifting its fair gaze
From mirror-eyes to watcher in the sky
Where migrant swallows ape the sailor's ghost
And that of her whose tower, useless now
Is lost to sight.

                           But not to mine, my son!
(aside) (I'll show him favour, till my plans mature)
I have this hour hatched an egg so fresh
That not the swarthiest princeling could discern
How noble was its aim.

                           No treason here!
O father mine, thou hast betrayed my honour
With even mention of the odd Magee
Or Willett – call him what you please – for if
He happen by my window on his head
I shall bestow thereon a wreath of pride
To snare his feet in bands of hallow'd ire.

My son, my son, you misconstrue my aims:
I have no guile, no evil plan – fie, fie!
Buy, son, buy an ox. Invest in farming,
Or something else.

                           My shoe's done up too tight

But that's the sign. I now must go, Carybd.
Have trust that time will serve us. Weilaway.

Ah, were he not my father, would I doubt
His wholeness and fair purpose. But the state
Demands solidity – and life in death
Were not a baleful thing if love were cast
Beyond the family tree. This firewood seems
A token of the rival penant's cause,
Which I shall burn within my weeping hearth
Not far from here.

                           My shoe's too tight!
My buttons are undone; and now my tie

(off) All right, all right! I heard the first time, dolt!
Pray shun this place – return to your vile holt!