Herald.
Silence
!
Landgrave.
Sir Minstrel,
you are insolent !
We do not know you,
yet have borne with you,
Rudely
uprising
ere your turn was come
:—
And you abuse our patience to insult
The noble minstrel whose impassioned song
Touched
every heart.
Sing
in your turn you may.
Love is the theme,
not imbecility
!
Wolfram.
That is the subject next his heart, no doubt !
\^Laughter.
Herald.
Lord Bertram
!
Bertram.
I shall sing in other key.
\Sings.
He is the equal of the gods, my queen.
He crowned and chosen
out of men,
Who sits beside thee, sees
Love's laughing
ecstasies
Flame
in thy face, and alter then
To the low light of passion dimly seen
In shaded
woods and dells,
Love's wide demesne.
I02