The World’s Tragedy

THE BLUE DWARF. 85 When the wine fills me. Pray you ! His slave presents wine to Govinda, who drinks. GOVINDA Health, my lord ! This wine is marvellous dry ! Scented like clover reaching up the broad Edge of some glacier in my northern marches. CHAU Look, how she writhes — speechless distemperature Her shriek within her gorge that parches ! GOVINDA Boy, bid that cup-slave from Ferozapur Make me an ode of this — nay, while I think ! An elegy. CHAU Please your majesty to drink ? GOVINDA Thanks, brother. Well, my gipsy girl divined