By which, when reason slumbers, or has lost
The reins of sensible comparison,
We fly at something higher than we are--
Scarce ever dive to lower--to be kings,
Or conquerors, crown'd with laurel or with gold,
Nay, mounting heaven itself on eagle wings.
Which, by the way, now that I think of it,
May furnish us the key to this high flight
That royal Eagle we were watching, and
Talking of as you went to sleep last night.

SEG.
Last night? Last night?

CLO.
Ay, do you not remember
Envying his immunity of flight,
As, rising from his throne of rock, he sail'd
Above the mountains far into the West,
That burn'd about him, while with poising wings
He darkled in it as a burning brand
Is seen to smoulder in the fire it feeds?

SEG.
Last night--last night--Oh, what a day was that
Between that last night and this sad To-day!

CLO.
And yet, perhaps,
Only some few dark moments, into which