'Od seize 'em, Moira; this will drive me mad! If men of blood must mate with only one Of those dear damned deluders called the Sex, Why has Heaven teased us with the taste for change?-- God, I begin to loathe the whole curst show! How hot it is! Get me a glass of brandy, Or I shall swoon off too. Now let's go out, And find some fresher air upon the lawn. [Exit the PRINCE REGENT, with LORDS MOIRA and YARMOUTH. The band strikes up “La Belle Catarina” and a new figure is formed.] SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Phantoms, ye strain your powers unduly here, Making faint fancies as they were indeed The Mighty Will's firm work. SPIRIT IRONIC Nay, Father, nay; The wives prepared to hasten hitherward Under the names of some gone down to death, Who yet were bidden. Must they not by here? SPIRIT OF THE YEARS There lie long leagues between a woman's word-- “She will, indeed she will!”--and acting on't. Whether those came or no, thy antics cease, And let the revel wear it out in peace. [Enter SPENCER PERCEVAL the Prime Minister, a small, pale, grave- looking man, and an Under-Secretary of State, meeting.] UNDER-SECRETARY Is the King of Rome really dead, and the gorgeous gold cradle wasted? PERCEVAL O no, he is alive and waxing strong: That tale has been set travelling more than once. But touching it, booms echo to our ear Of graver import, unimpeachable. UNDER-SECRETARY Your speech is dark. PERCEVAL Well, a new war in Europe. Before the year is out there may arise A red campaign outscaling any seen. Russia and France the parties to the strife-- Ay, to the death! UNDER-SECRETARY By Heaven, sir, do you say so? [Enter CASTLEREAGH, a tall, handsome man with a Roman nose, who, seeing them, approaches.] PERCEVAL Ha, Castlereagh. Till now I have missed you here. This news is startling for us all, I say! CASTLEREAGH My mind is blank on it! Since I left office I know no more what villainy's afoot, Or virtue either, than an anchoret Who mortifies the flesh in some lone cave. PERCEVAL Well, happily that may not last for long. But this grave pother that's just now agog May reach such radius in its consequence As to outspan our lives! Yes, Bonaparte And Alexander--late such bosom-friends-- Are closing to a mutual murder-bout At which the lips of Europe will wax wan. Bonaparte says the fault is not with him, And so says Alexander. But we know The Austrian knot began their severance, And that the Polish question largens it. Nothing but time is needed for the clash. And if so be that Wellington but keep His foot in the Peninsula awhile, Between the pestle and the mortar-stone Of Russia and of Spain, Napoleon's brayed. SPIRIT OF RUMOUR [to the Spirit of the Years]