rteous as he's bounteous,
And we all love him.

_Hen._ His reign is as yet
Hardly a year o'erpast its honeymoon,
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal:
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway
And moods of mind.

_Eric_. Pray Heaven he keep the present! 20
Then his brave son, Count Ulric--there's a knight!
Pity the wars are o'er!

_Hen._ Why so?

_Eric_. Look on him!
And answer that yourself.

_Hen._ He's very youthful,
And strong and beautiful as a young tiger.

_Eric_. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness.

_Hen._ But
Perhaps a true one.

_Eric_. Pity, as I said,
The wars are over: in the hall, who like
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride,
Which awes, but yet offends not? in the field,
Who like him with his spear in hand, when gnashing 30
His tusks, and ripping up, from right to left,
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket?
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears
A sword like him? Whose plume nods knightlier?

_Hen._ No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war
Be long in coming, he is of that kind
Will make it for himself, if he hath not
Already done as much.

_Eric_. What do you mean?

_Hen._ You can't deny his train of followers
(But few our native fellow-vassals born 40
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves
As---- [_Pauses_.

_Eric_. What?

_Hen._ The war (you love so much) leaves living.
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children.

_Eric_. Nonsense! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows,
Such as old Tilly loved.

_Hen._ And who loved Tilly?
Ask that at Magdebourg[194]--or, for that matter,
Wallenstein either;--they are gone to----

_Eric_. Rest!
But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce.

_Hen._ I wish they had left us something of their rest:
The country (nominally now at peace) 50
Is over-run with--God knows who: they fly
By night, and disappear with sunrise; but
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even