You have rightly named me. I lie rolled up under the ragged thorns That are upon the edge of those great waters Where all things vanish away, and I have heard Murmurs that are the ending of all sound. I am out of life; I am rolled up, and yet, Hedgehog although I am, I’ll not unroll For you, King’s dog! Go to the King, your master. Crouch down and wag your tail, for it may be He has nothing now against you, and I think The stripes of your last beating are all healed. [_The SOLDIER has drawn his sword._ CHAMBERLAIN. [_Striking up sword._] Put up your sword, sir; put it up, I say! The common sort would tear you into pieces If you but touched him. SOLDIER. If he’s to be flattered, Petted, cajoled, and dandled into humour, We might as well have left him at the table. [_Goes to one side sheathing sword._ SEANCHAN. You must need keep your patience yet awhile, For I have some few mouthfuls of sweet air To swallow before I have grown to be as civil As any other dust. CHAMBERLAIN. You wrong us, Seanchan. There is none here but holds you in respect; And if you’d only eat out of this dish, The King would show how much he honours you. [_Bowing and smiling._ Who could imagine you’d so take to heart Being put from the high table? I am certain That you, if you will only think it over, Will understand that it is men of law, Leaders of the King’s armies, and the like, That should sit there. SEANCHAN. Somebody has deceived you, Or maybe it was your own eyes that lied, In making it appear that I was driven From the King’s table. You have driven away The images of them that weave a dance By the four rivers in the mountain garden. CHAMBERLAIN. You mean we have driven poetry away. But that’s not altogether true, for I, As you should know, have written poetry. And often when the table has been cleared, And candles lighted, the King calls for me, And I repeat it him. My poetry Is not to be compared with yours; but still, Where I am honoured, poetry is honoured— In some measure. SEANCHAN. If you are a poet, Cry out that the King’s money would not buy, Nor the high circle consecrate his head, If poets had never christened gold, and even The moon’s poor daughter, that most whey-faced metal, Precious; and cry out that none alive Would ride among the arrows with high heart, Or scatter with an open hand, had not Our heady craft commended wasteful virtues. And when that story’s finished, shake your coat Where little jewels gleam on it, and say, A herdsman, sitting where the pigs had trampled, Made up a song about enchanted kings, Who were so finely dressed, one fancied them All fiery, and women by the churn And children by the hearth caught up the song And murmured it, until the tailors heard it. CHAMBERLAIN.