_Par._ True: the so-heavy chain which galled mankind Is shattered, and the noblest of us all Must bow to the deliverer--nay, the worker Of our own project--we who long before Had burst our trammels, but forgot the crowd, We should have taught, still groaned beneath their load: This he has done and nobly. Speed that may! Whatever be my chance or my mischance, What benefits mankind must glad me too; And men seem made, though not as I believed, For something better than the times produce. Witness these gangs of peasants your new lights From Suabia have possessed, whom Münzer leads, And whom the duke, the landgrave and the elector Will calm in blood! Well, well; 't is not my world! _Fest._ Hark! _Par._ 'T is the melancholy wind astir Within the trees; the embers too are gray: Morn must be near. _Fest._ Best ope the casement: see, The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars, Is blank and motionless: how peaceful sleep The tree-tops altogether! Like an asp, The wind slips whispering from bough to bough. _Par._ Ay; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree By the hour, nor count time lost. _Fest._ So you shall gaze: Those happy times will come again. _Par._ Gone, gone, Those pleasant times! Does not the moaning wind Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains And bartered sleep for them? _Fest._ It is our trust That there is yet another world to mend All error and mischance.