[Many speak at once, confusedly.]

  What babblement is this?  Were ye born at Babel? 
  Give me clear words and reasonable speech.

RAKHAZ:  [Pompously]
  O King, I am a reasonable man;
  And there be some who call me very wise
  And prudent; but of this I will not speak,
  For I am also modest.  Let me plead,
  Persuade, and reason you to choose for peace. 
  This golden yoke may be a bitter draught,
  But better far to fold it in our arms,
  Than risk our cargoes in the savage horn
  Of war.  Shall we imperil all our wealth,
  Our valuable lives?  Nobles are few,
  Rich men are rare, and wise men rarer still;
  The precious jewels on the tree of life,
  Wherein the common people are but brides
  And clay and rubble.  Let the city go,
  But save the corner-stones that float the ship! 
  Have I not spoken well?

BENBADAD:  [Shaking his head.]
  Excellent well! 
  Most eloquent!  But misty in the meaning.

HAZAEL:  [With cold decision.]
  Then let me speak, O King, in plainer words! 
  The days of independent states are past: 
  The tide of empire sweeps across the earth;
  Assyria rides it with resistless power
  And thunders on to subjugate the world. 
  Oppose her, and we fight with Destiny;
  Submit to her demands, and we shall ride
  With her to victory.  Therefore return
  This bloody horn, the symbol of wild war,
  With words of soft refusal, and accept
  The golden yoke, Assyria’s gift of peace.

NAAMAN:  [Starting forward eagerly.]
  There is no peace beneath a conqueror’s yoke,
  My King, but shame and heaviness of heart! 
  For every state that barters liberty
  To win imperial favour, shall be drained
  Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars
  To make the empire greater.  Here’s the choice: 
  We fight to-day to keep our country free,
  Or else we fight forevermore to help
  Assyria bind the world as we are bound. 
  I am a soldier, and I know the hell
  Of war!  But I will gladly ride through hell
  To save Damascus.  Master, bid me ride! 
  Ten thousand chariots wait for your command;
  And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash
  Of patience till you let them go; a throng
  Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea
  Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset! 
  O master, let me launch your mighty host
  Against the Bull,—­we’ll bring him to his knees!

[Cries of “War!” from the soldiers and the people; “peace!” from the courtiers and the priests.  The King rises, turning toward NAAMAN, and seems about to speak.  REZON lifts his rod.]

REZON: 
  Shall not the gods decide when mortals doubt? 
  Rimmon is master of the city’s fate;
  He reigns in secret and his will is law;
  We read his will, by our most ancient faith,
  In omens and in signs of mystery. 
  Must we not hearken to his high commands?