(They all kneel round his bed:  trumpets, drums, etc.)

     Soldiers. 
     —­Segismund!  Segismund!  Prince Segismund! 
     —­King Segismund!  Down with Basilio! 
     —­Down with Astolfo!  Segismund our King! etc. 
     —­He stares upon us wildly.  He cannot speak. 
     —­I said so—­driv’n him mad. 
     —­Speak to him, Captain.

     Captain. 
     Oh Royal Segismund, our Prince and King,
     Look on us—­listen to us—­answer us,
     Your faithful soldiery and subjects, now
     About you kneeling, but on fire to rise
     And cleave a passage through your enemies,
     Until we seat you on your lawful throne. 
     For though your father, King Basilio,
     Now King of Poland, jealous of the stars
     That prophesy his setting with your rise,
     Here holds you ignominiously eclipsed,
     And would Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy,
     Mount to the throne of Poland after him;
     So will not we, your loyal soldiery
     And subjects; neither those of us now first
     Apprised of your existence and your right: 
     Nor those that hitherto deluded by
     Allegiance false, their vizors now fling down,
     And craving pardon on their knees with us
     For that unconscious disloyalty,
     Offer with us the service of their blood;
     Not only we and they; but at our heels
     The heart, if not the bulk, of Poland follows
     To join their voices and their arms with ours,
     In vindicating with our lives our own
     Prince Segismund to Poland and her throne.

     Soldiers. 
     —­Segismund, Segismund, Prince Segismund! 
     —­Our own King Segismund, etc. 
     (They all rise.)

     Seg. 
     Again?  So soon?—­What, not yet done with me? 
     The sun is little higher up, I think,
     Than when I last lay down,
     To bury in the depth of your own sea
     You that infest its shallows.

     Capt. 
     Sir!

     Seg. 
     And now,
     Not in a palace, not in the fine clothes
     We all were in; but here, in the old place,
     And in our old accoutrement—­
     Only your vizors off, and lips unlock’d
     To mock me with that idle title—­

     Capt. 
     Nay,
     Indeed no idle title, but your own,
     Then, now, and now for ever.  For, behold,
     Ev’n as I speak, the mountain passes fill
     And bristle with the advancing soldiery
     That glitters in your rising glory, sir;
     And, at our signal, echo to our cry,
     ‘Segismund, King of Poland!’ etc.

     (Shouts, trumpets, etc.)

     Seg. 
     Oh, how cheap
     The muster of a countless host of shadows,
     As impotent to do with as to keep! 
     All this they said before—­to softer music.