And creep about the fields, and this great heat
Vanish away, and grass show its green shoots?

FIRST MERCHANT. There is no sign of change--day copies day,
Green things are dead--the cattle too are dead
Or dying--and on all the vapour hangs,
And fattens with disease and glows with heat.
In you is all the hope of all the land.

CATHLEEN. And heard you of the demons who buy souls?

FIRST MERCHANT.
There are some men who hold they have wolves' heads,
And say their limbs--dried by the infinite flame--
Have all the speed of storms; others, again,
Say they are gross and little; while a few
Will have it they seem much as mortals are,
But tall and brown and travelled--like us--lady,
Yet all agree a power is in their looks
That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net
About their souls, and that all men would go
And barter those poor vapours, were it not
You bribe them with the safety of your gold.

CATHLEEN. Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels
That I am wealthy! Wherefore do they sell?

FIRST MERCHANT. As we came in at the great door we saw
Your porter sleeping in his niche--a soul
Too little to be worth a hundred pence,