EST.
     Why, what else means the glittering steel, my Lord,
     That bristles in the rear of these fine words? 
     What can it mean, but, failing to cajole,
     To fight or force me from my just pretension?

     Ast.
     Nay, might I not ask ev’n the same of you,
     The nodding helmets of whose men-at-arms
     Out-crest the plumage of your lady court?

     EST.
     But to defend what yours would force from me.

     Ast.
     Might not I, lady, say the same of mine? 
     But not to come to battle, ev’n of words,
     With a fair lady, and my kinswoman;
     And as averse to stand before your face,
     Defenceless, and condemn’d in your disgrace,
     Till the good king be here to clear it all—­
     Will you vouchsafe to hear me?

     EST.
     As you will.

     Ast.
     You know that, when about to leave this world,
     Our royal grandsire, King Alfonso, left
     Three children; one a son, Basilio,
     Who wears—­long may he wear! the crown of Poland;
     And daughters twain:  of whom the elder was
     Your mother, Clorilena, now some while
     Exalted to a more than mortal throne;
     And Recisunda, mine, the younger sister,
     Who, married to the Prince of Muscovy,
     Gave me the light which may she live to see
     Herself for many, many years to come. 
     Meanwhile, good King Basilio, as you know,
     Deep in abstruser studies than this world,
     And busier with the stars than lady’s eyes,
     Has never by a second marriage yet
     Replaced, as Poland ask’d of him, the heir
     An early marriage brought and took away;
     His young queen dying with the son she bore him;
     And in such alienation grown so old
     As leaves no other hope of heir to Poland
     Than his two sisters’ children; you, fair cousin,
     And me; for whom the Commons of the realm
     Divide themselves into two several factions;
     Whether for you, the elder sister’s child;
     Or me, born of the younger, but, they say,
     My natural prerogative of man
     Outweighing your priority of birth. 
     Which discord growing loud and dangerous,
     Our uncle, King Basilio, doubly sage
     In prophesying and providing for
     The future, as to deal with it when come,
     Bids us here meet to-day in solemn council
     Our several pretensions to compose. 
     And, but the martial out-burst that proclaims
     His coming, makes all further parley vain,
     Unless my bosom, by which only wise
     I prophesy, now wrongly prophesies,
     By such a happy compact as I dare
     But glance at till the Royal Sage declare.

     (Trumpets, etc.  Enter King Basilio with his Council.)

     All. 
     The King!  God save the King!