Yes, yes, send thy love-message to Morfydd, the fair wanton.

By whom dost thou send it, I would know?
by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water.

Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but where is Morfydd the while?
What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach?
Ay, truly; and by whom ?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power?
But where is Morfydd?
And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there.

Quite right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd?
But another form is nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest thy bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just above the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave, which by thine own account reaches hell--and then thou ravest at the misfortune of thy bow, and the non-appearance of Morfydd, and abusest Reynard.

Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described him like thee?
the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil's in the Evangile.