John Maher, a man of substance, with dull mind, And quiet senses and unventurous heart. The angels think him safe. Two hundred crowns, All for a soul, a little breath of wind. THE MAN. I ask three hundred crowns. You have read there, That no mere lapse of days can make me yours. FIRST MERCHANT. There is something more writ here—often at night He is wakeful from a dread of growing poor. There is this crack in you—two hundred crowns. [_THE MAN takes them and goes._ SECOND MERCHANT. Come, deal—one would half think you had no souls. If only for the credit of your parishes, Come, deal, deal, deal, or will you always starve? Maire, the wife of Shemus, would not deal, She starved—she lies in there with red wallflowers, And candles stuck in bottles round her bed. A WOMAN. What price, now, will you give for mine? FIRST MERCHANT. Ay, ay, Soft, handsome, and still young—not much, I think. [_Reading in the parchment._ She has love letters in a little jar On the high shelf between the pepper-pot And wood-cased hour-glass. THE WOMAN. O, the scandalous parchment! FIRST MERCHANT [_reading_]. She hides them from her husband, who buys horses, And is not much at home. You are almost safe. I give you fifty crowns. [_She turns to go._ A hundred, then. [_She takes them, and goes into the crowd._ Come—deal, deal, deal; it is for charity We buy such souls at all; a thousand sins Made them our master’s long before we came. Come, deal—come, deal. You seem resolved to starve Until your bones show through your skin. Come, deal, Or live on nettles, grass, and dandelion. Or do you dream the famine will go by? The famine is hale and hearty; it is mine And my great master’s; it shall no wise cease Until our purpose end: the yellow vapour That brought it bears it over your dried fields And fills with violent phantoms of the lost, And grows more deadly as day copies day. See how it dims the daylight. Is that peace Known to the birds of prey so dread a thing? They, and the souls obedient to our master, And those who live with that great other spirit Have gained an end, a peace, while you but toss And swing upon a moving balance beam. [_ALEEL enters; the wires of his harp are broken._ ALEEL. Here, take my soul, for I am tired of it; I do not ask a price. FIRST MERCHANT [_reading_]. A man of songs: Alone in the hushed passion of romance, His mind ran all on sidheoges and on tales Of Fenian labours and the Red Branch kings, And he cared nothing for the life of man: But now all changes. ALEEL.