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SCENE II.
Harold.Now, Spirit of Mischief, rise! Welcome, foul Fiend,
That rid'st the Carr of Night; and scatter'st Plagues
With unseen Hand!—Dunelm, he fears me not:
Nor dreams what Tempest soon shall blacken round.
Did'st thou not mark that frowning Captive, Egbert?
Dunelm.
I did.
Harold.
He best will bear the General's Love
To Thyra's Tent.—Command him hither, Dunelm.
[Exit Dunelm.
His gen'rous Heart shall burn with fierce Disdain;
20
Which Pity cannot bend.—So black a Purpose
Known and proclaim'd, may haply rouze to Rage
The Duke of Mercia; in whose fiery Breast
Lies Fury, ripe to catch, and blaze in Flames.
Oh, for some swift Occasion, that my Breath
May kindle Discord into deadly Feud!
Like angry Clouds that sail on warring Winds,
Their fierce conflicting Wrath shall meet in Thunder,
And Ruin close the Fray!—
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