Not to the conscience to be reconciled
     Unless opposing almost certain evil
     Against so slight contingency of good. 
     Well—­thus perplex’d, I have resolved at last
     To bring the thing to trial:  whereunto
     Here have I summon’d you, my Peers, and you
     Whom I more dearly look to, failing him,
     As witnesses to that which I propose;
     And thus propose the doing it.  Clotaldo,
     Who guards my son with old fidelity,
     Shall bring him hither from his tower by night
     Lockt in a sleep so fast as by my art
     I rivet to within a link of death,
     But yet from death so far, that next day’s dawn
     Shall wake him up upon the royal bed,
     Complete in consciousness and faculty,
     When with all princely pomp and retinue
     My loyal Peers with due obeisance
     Shall hail him Segismund, the Prince of Poland. 
     Then if with any show of human kindness
     He fling discredit, not upon the stars,
     But upon me, their misinterpreter,
     With all apology mistaken age
     Can make to youth it never meant to harm,
     To my son’s forehead will I shift the crown
     I long have wish’d upon a younger brow;
     And in religious humiliation,
     For what of worn-out age remains to me,
     Entreat my pardon both of Heaven and him
     For tempting destinies beyond my reach. 
     But if, as I misdoubt, at his first step
     The hoof of the predicted savage shows;
     Before predicted mischief can be done,
     The self-same sleep that loosed him from the chain
     Shall re-consign him, not to loose again. 
     Then shall I, having lost that heir direct,
     Look solely to my sisters’ children twain
     Each of a claim so equal as divides
     The voice of Poland to their several sides,
     But, as I trust, to be entwined ere long
     Into one single wreath so fair and strong
     As shall at once all difference atone,
     And cease the realm’s division with their own. 
     Cousins and Princes, Peers and Councillors,
     Such is the purport of this invitation,
     And such is my design.  Whose furtherance
     If not as Sovereign, if not as Seer,
     Yet one whom these white locks, if nothing else,
     to patient acquiescence consecrate,
     I now demand and even supplicate.

     Ast.
     Such news, and from such lips, may well suspend
     The tongue to loyal answer most attuned;
     But if to me as spokesman of my faction
     Your Highness looks for answer; I reply
     For one and all—­Let Segismund, whom now
     We first hear tell of as your living heir,
     Appear, and but in your sufficient eye
     Approve himself worthy to be your son,
     Then we will hail him Poland’s rightful heir. 
     What says my cousin?

     EST.
     Ay, with all my heart. 
     But if my youth and sex upbraid me not
     That I should dare ask of so wise a king—­