WIND
We are they.

CLOUD, (echoing)
We are they.
But whither now doth Randolph stray,
And why the mail, and why the steed?

RANDOLPH
This is my father's mail indeed,
Bequeathed with message to his son:
"Stand straight in it and yield to none."

WIND
But whither off and why away?

RANDOLPH
Off to the world; I cannot stay--
That world I have so often viewed
Here from this upper solitude--
This bulwark barring strife and trade.
Love calls me off. I love a maid,
Loving her silently and long,
Learning for her to hate the wrong,
Learning for her to seek the right,
To hew at sloth and faint resolve
And thoughts that round but self revolve,
And pray for grace and virtue--wings
That bear men to the highest things,