I said the poets hung Images of the life that was in Eden About the child-bed of the world, that it, Looking upon those images, might bear Triumphant children. But why must I stand here, Repeating an old lesson, while you starve? SEANCHAN. Tell on, for I begin to know the voice. What evil thing will come upon the world If the Arts perish? OLDEST PUPIL. If the Arts should perish, The world that lacked them would be like a woman, That looking on the cloven lips of a hare, Brings forth a hare-lipped child. SEANCHAN. But that’s not all: For when I asked you how a man should guard Those images, you had an answer also, If you’re the man that you have claimed to be, Comparing them to venerable things God gave to men before he gave them wheat. OLDEST PUPIL. I answered—and the word was half your own— That he should guard them as the Men of Dea Guard their four treasures, as the Grail King guards His holy cup, or the pale, righteous horse The jewel that is underneath his horn, Pouring out life for it as one pours out Sweet heady wine.... But now I understand; You would refute me out of my own mouth; And yet a place at table, near the King, Is nothing of great moment, Seanchan. How does so light a thing touch poetry? [_SEANCHAN is now sitting up. He still looks dreamily in front of him._ SEANCHAN. At Candlemas you called this poetry One of the fragile, mighty things of God, That die at an insult. OLDEST PUPIL. [_To other PUPILS._] Give me some true answer, For on that day we spoke about the Court, And said that all that was insulted there The world insulted, for the Courtly life, Being the first comely child of the world, Is the world’s model. How shall I answer him? Can you not give me some true argument? I will not tempt him with a lying one. YOUNGEST PUPIL. O, tell him that the lovers of his music Have need of him. SEANCHAN. But I am labouring For some that shall be born in the nick o’ time, And find sweet nurture, that they may have voices, Even in anger, like the strings of harps; And how could they be born to majesty If I had never made the golden cradle? YOUNGEST PUPIL. [_Throwing himself at SEANCHAN’S feet._] Why did you take me from my father’s fields? If you would leave me now, what shall I love? Where shall I go? What shall I set my hand to? And why have you put music in my ears, If you would send me to the clattering houses? I will throw down the trumpet and the harp, For how could I sing verses or make music With none to praise me, and a broken heart? SEANCHAN.