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.