_Tat._ Just now return'd from war: He rides like Mars in his triumphal car. Conquest precedes with laurels in his hand; Behind him Fame does on her tripos stand; Her golden trump shrill thro' the air she sounds, Which rends the earth, and then to heaven rebounds; Trophies and spoils innumerable grace This triumph, which all triumphs does deface: Haste then, great queen! your hero thus to meet, Who longs to lay his laurels at your feet. _Queen._ Art mad, Tatlanthe? I meant no such thing. Your talk's distasteful. _Tat._ Didn't you name the king? _Queen._ I did, Tatlanthe, but it was not thine; The charming king I mean is only mine. _Tat._ Who else, who else, but such a charming fair, In Chrononhotonthologos should share? The queen of beauty, and the god of arms, In him and you united blend their charms. Oh! had you seen him, how he dealt out death, And at one stroke robb'd thousands of their breath: While on the slaughter'd heaps himself did rise, In pyramids of conquest to the skies. The gods all hail'd, and fain would have him stay; But your bright charms have call'd him thence away. _Queen._ This does my utmost indignation raise: You are too pertly lavish in his praise. Leave me for ever! [TATLANTHE _kneeling._ _Tat._ Oh! what shall I say? Do not, great queen, your anger thus display! Oh, frown me dead! let me not live to hear My gracious queen and mistress so severe! I've made some horrible mistake, no doubt; Oh! tell me what it is! _Queen._ No, find it out. _Tat._ No, I will never leave you; here I'll grow Till you some token of forgiveness show. Oh! all ye powers above, come down, come down! And from her brow dispel that angry frown. _Queen._ Tatlanthe, rise, you have prevail'd at last; Offend no more, and I'll excuse what's past. [TATLANTHE _aside, rising._ _Tat._ Why, what a fool was I, not to perceive her passion for the topsy-turvy king--the gentleman that carries his head where his heels should be! But I must tack about, I see. _To the_ QUEEN. Excuse me, gracious madam, if my heart Bears sympathy with yours in every part; With you alike, I sorrow and rejoice, Approve your passion, and commend your choice; The captive king. _Queen._ That's he! that's he! that's he! I'd die ten thousand deaths to set him free. Oh! my Tatlanthe! have you seen his face, His air, his shape, his mien, his ev'ry grace? In what a charming attitude he stands, How prettily he foots it with his hands! Well, to his arms, no to his legs I fly, For I must have him, if I live or die. [_Exeunt._ SCENE.--_A Bedchamber._ CHRONONHOTONTHOLOGOS _asleep._