instincts—­but I know
     That looking now upon that head whose crown
     Pronounces him a sovereign king, I feel
     No setting of the current in my blood
     Tow’rd him as sire.  How is’t with you, old man,
     Tow’rd him they call your son?—­

     King. 
     Alas!  Alas!

     Seg. 
     Your sorrow, then?

     King. 
     Beholding what I do.

     Seg. 
     Ay, but how know this sorrow that has grown
     And moulded to this present shape of man,
     As of your own creation?

     King. 
     Ev’n from birth.

     Seg. 
     But from that hour to this, near, as I think,
     Some twenty such renewals of the year
     As trace themselves upon the barren rocks,
     I never saw you, nor you me—­unless,
     Unless, indeed, through one of those dark masks
     Through which a son might fail to recognize
     The best of fathers.

     King. 
     Be that as you will: 
     But, now we see each other face to face,
     Know me as you I know; which did I not,
     By whatsoever signs, assuredly
     You were not here to prove it at my risk.

     Seg. 
     You are my father. 
     And is it true then, as Clotaldo swears,
     ’Twas you that from the dawning birth of one
     Yourself brought into being,—­you, I say,
     Who stole his very birthright; not alone
     That secondary and peculiar right
     Of sovereignty, but even that prime
     Inheritance that all men share alike,
     And chain’d him—­chain’d him!—­like a wild beast’s whelp. 
     Among as savage mountains, to this hour? 
     Answer if this be thus.

     King. 
     Oh, Segismund,
     In all that I have done that seems to you,
     And, without further hearing, fairly seems,
     Unnatural and cruel—­’twas not I,
     But One who writes His order in the sky
     I dared not misinterpret nor neglect,
     Who knows with what reluctance—­

     Seg. 
     Oh, those stars,
     Those stars, that too far up from human blame
     To clear themselves, or careless of the charge,
     Still bear upon their shining shoulders all
     The guilt men shift upon them!

     King. 
     Nay, but think: 
     Not only on the common score of kind,
     But that peculiar count of sovereignty—­
     If not behind the beast in brain as heart,
     How should I thus deal with my innocent child,
     Doubly desired, and doubly dear when come,
     As that sweet second-self that all desire,
     And princes more than all, to root themselves
     By that succession in their people’s hearts,
     Unless at that superior Will, to which
     Not kings alone, but sovereign nature bows?