Are by the poets and historians
Stuck full of tragedies and woes of war.
ILLAN.
Those are but tales to pass away the time,
Invented by the fancies of poor swains
And rustic maidens: but the chroniclers,
Who note the deeds done in the haunts of men,
Have oft but wicked actions to record.
DEIRDRE.
And therefore thou ? —
ILLAN.
Would rather if I might,
Frequent the open country, and converse
With shepherds, hunters, and such innocents.
DEIRDRE.
Yet wouldst thou not shun martial deeds of arms ?
ILLAN.
I dare not shun them, did they challenge me,
For that were base, unmanly cowardice ;
But I would rather win the smiles I love
By mild humanity and gentleness.
DEIRDRE.
Thou lovest, then ?
ILLAN.
A peerless maid I love
And, for her sake, methinks, love all the world ;
For all the world's perfections are in her.
DEIRDRE.
Long be thou happy in believing so ;
Have me in kind regard as I have thee,
And pry thee let thy brother take thy place.
Dark though he be, as thou art flaxen fair
I trust I may esteem him equally.
Ride near me Buino: let me talk with thee :
Say, wherefore, do men call thee Buino Borb ?
