AST. Fly, sir-- KING. And slave-like flying not out-ride The fate which better like a King abide! (Enter Segismund, Rosaura, Soldiers, etc.) SEG. Where is the King? KING (prostrating himself). Behold him,--by this late Anticipation of resistless fate, Thus underneath your feet his golden crown, And the white head that wears it, laying down, His fond resistance hope to expiate. SEG. Princes and warriors of Poland--you That stare on this unnatural sight aghast, Listen to one who, Heaven-inspired to do What in its secret wisdom Heaven forecast, By that same Heaven instructed prophet-wise To justify the present in the past. What in the sapphire volume of the skies Is writ by God's own finger misleads none, But him whose vain and misinstructed eyes, They mock with misinterpretation, Or who, mistaking what he rightly read, Ill commentary makes, or misapplies Thinking to shirk or thwart it. Which has done The wisdom of this venerable head; Who, well provided with the secret key To that gold alphabet, himself made me, Himself, I say, the savage he fore-read Fate somehow should be charged with; nipp'd the growth Of better nature in constraint and sloth, That only bring to bear the seed of wrong And turn'd the stream to fury whose out-burst Had kept his lawful channel uncoerced, And fertilized the land he flow'd along. Then like to some unskilful duellist, Who having over-reached himself pushing too hard His foe, or but a moment off his guard-- What odds, when Fate is one's antagonist!-- Nay, more, this royal father, self-dismay'd At having Fate against himself array'd, Upon himself the very sword he knew Should wound him, down upon his bosom drew, That might well handled, well have wrought; or, kept Undrawn, have harmless in the scabbard slept. But Fate shall not by human force be broke, Nor foil'd by human feint; the Secret learn'd Against the scholar by that master turn'd Who to himself reserves the master-stroke. Witness whereof this venerable Age, Thrice crown'd as Sire, and Sovereign, and Sage, Down to the very dust dishonour'd by The very means he tempted to defy The irresistible. And shall not I, Till now the mere dumb instrument that wrought The battle Fate has with my father fought, Now the mere mouth-piece of its victory Oh, shall not I, the champions' sword laid down, Be yet more shamed to wear the teacher's gown, And, blushing at the part I had to play, Down where that honour'd head I was to lay By this more just submission of my own, The treason Fate has forced on me atone?