Not so, Baldazzar! _Surely_ I live.
     _Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus.
    _Pol_.  Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
Command me,
womens jordan high heels, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my, forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
   _ Bal_.  To the field, then -- to the field --
To the senate or the field.
    _Pol_. Alas! Alas,
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There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is -- what voice was that?
   _ Bal_.  I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
   _ Pol_.  Then I but dreamed.
   _ Bal_.  Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp -- the court,
Befit thee -- Fame awaits thee -- Glory calls --
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
   _ Pol_.  It _is_ a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it _then?_
   _ Bal_.  I heard it not.
   _ Pol_.  Thou heardst it not! -- Baldazaar, speak no more
To me,
jordan hills, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto deayilai:
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   On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmjnp