CHAMB. 
     Your subjects and your vassals like ourselves.

     Seg. 
     Ay, ay—­my subjects—­in my capital—­
     Warsaw—­and I am Prince of it—­You see
     It needs much iteration to strike sense
     Into the human echo.

     CHAMB. 
     Left awhile
     In the quick brain, the word will quickly to
     Full meaning blow.

     Seg. 
     You think so?

     CHAMB. 
     And meanwhile
     Lest our obsequiousness, which means no worse
     Than customary honour to the Prince
     We most rejoice to welcome, trouble you,
     Should we retire again? or stand apart? 
     Or would your Highness have the music play
     Again, which meditation, as they say,
     So often loves to float upon?

     Seg. 
     The music? 
     No—­yes—­perhaps the trumpet—­
     (Aside)
     Yet if that
     Brought back the troop!

     A lord. 
     The trumpet!  There again
     How trumpet-like spoke out the blood of Poland!

     CHAMB. 
     Before the morning is far up, your Highness
     Will have the trumpet marshalling your soldiers
     Under the Palace windows.

     Seg. 
     Ah, my soldiers—­
     My soldiers—­not black-vizor’d?—­

     CHAMB. 
     Sir?

     Seg. 
     No matter. 
     But—­one thing—­for a moment—­in your ear—­
     Do you know one Clotaldo?

     CHAMB. 
     Oh, my Lord,
     He and myself together, I may say,
     Although in different vocations,
     Have silver’d in your royal father’s service;
     And, as I trust, with both of us a few
     White hairs to fall in yours.

     Seg. 
     Well said, well said! 
     Basilio, my father—­well—­Clotaldo
     Is he my kinsman too?

     CHAMB. 
     Oh, my good Lord,
     A General simply in your Highness’ service,
     Than whom your Highness has no trustier.

     Seg. 
     Ay, so you said before, I think.  And you
     With that white wand of yours—­
     Why, now I think on’t, I have read of such
     A silver-hair’d magician with a wand,
     Who in a moment, with a wave of it,
     Turn’d rags to jewels, clowns to emperors,
     By some benigner magic than the stars
     Spirited poor good people out of hand
     From all their woes; in some enchanted sleep
     Carried them off on cloud or dragon-back
     Over the mountains, over the wide Deep,
     And set them down to wake in Fairyland.

     CHAMB. 
     Oh, my good Lord, you laugh at me—­and I
     Right glad to make you laugh at such a price: 
     You know me no enchanter:  if I were,
     I and my wand as much as your Highness’,
     As now your chamberlain—­