Edward will judge him out of church and law; But in our Scotch communion he is safe: And being out of law, there is no way, Except to be our king, above the law. Needs must, my lords; and is not need God's will? Edward Bruce. It is the will of God. All. Bruce shall be king. Enter Bruce. Long live the King! Long live King Robert Bruce! Bruce. You hail me by a name that may be mine In more than word, but not without your aid. There are not many Scots besides yourselves Who will acknowledge me their King. Think well Before you pledge your faith to one outlawed; For so I am, if law depend on power. Scotland, the Isles, and England are my foes: My friends are individual; on my hands They may be counted. Lennox, Athole, Cairns, Fleming, the Hayes, the Frasers, Sommerville, Glasgow, and Moray, sum the list with you: These only are the Scots whom I may rule. Sir Christopher Seton. Then only these deserve the name of Scot. Lamberton. Right, Seton! Randolf. We are Scots, the rest are slaves! Freeman and Scot have ever meant the same. Lamberton. Carrick or King? Bruce. King, by God's will and yours. Lamberton. Sometimes we please ourselves with images Of deeds heroic. The unstabled thought, Enfranchised by rough-riding passion, winds A haughty course and laughs at depth and height: But the blood tires; and lo! our thought, a steed, That from his rider ever takes the mood, Pants, droops, turns tail, and hobbles home to stall. Look in yourselves, and see if vain conceit Or lofty daring, lord it o'er your minds. This thing is sure: reason must be constrained: You must be hot, believing, fanatic; You must be wrathful, patriotic, rash; Forethought abandon o'er to providence; Let prudence lag behind you, like a snail, Bearing its house with care upon its back; Take counsel only of the circumstance That shapes itself in doing of the deed; Be happy, scornful, death-defiant: strong You will be then matchless, invincible. What! shall we go to Scone, and crown Bruce king? Randolf. At once, Lord Archbishop. Sir John Seton. To Glasgow, first, To take our friends there with us. Lamberton. That is best. Is it your will to be crowned king at Scone? Bruce. Most reverend father, and my noble friends, If language were to me in place of thought, I could pour grateful speeches in your ears; But words are wanting. I am helpless, dumb; I would be lonely; I would think awhile. Lamberton. Think worthy thoughts, that only second are To worthy deeds; yet their begetters too. We'll leave you till our little troop's arrayed. Bruce. You are very kind, my lords. [All go out except Bruce. I'm not a man Much given to meditate. When pending thoughts Hurtle each other in the intellect, Darkening that firmament like thunder-clouds, To let them lighten forth in utterance