KING. Alas, O Almirante! We have not hit upon it, though we tried. For days, for weeks, we dig and dig and dig, And hope that we could so transform this spot, This orange-bearing, shaded garden grove, To have it seem like such as England loves, The austere country of my austere wife. And she but smiles and smiling says me nay! Thus are they all, Britannia's children, all; If any custom is not quite their own, They stare, and smile, and will have none of it. Th' intention, Leonore, was good, at least, So give these worthy men a word of thanks; God knows how long they may have toiled for us. QUEEN. I thank you, noble sirs. KING. To something else! The day has started wrong. I hoped to show You houses, meadows, in the English taste, Through which we tried to make this garden please; We missed our aim. Dissemble not, O love! 'Tis so, and let us think of it no more. To duty we devote what time remains, Ere Spanish wine spice high our Spanish fare. What, from the boundary still no messenger? Toledo did we choose, with wise intent, To be at hand for tidings of the foe. And still there are none? MANRIQUE. Sire-- KING. What is it, pray? MANRIQUE. A messenger-- KING. Has come? What then? MANRIQUE (_pointing to the Queen_). Not now. KING. My wife is used to council and to war, The Queen in everything shares with the King. MANRIQUE. The messenger himself, perhaps, more than The message-- KING. Well, who is't? MANRIQUE. It is my son. KING. Ah, Garceran! Pray let him come. (_To the_ QUEEN.) Stay thou! The youth, indeed, most grossly erred, when he Disguised, slipped in the kemenate to spy Upon the darling of his heart--Do not, O Doña Clara, bow your head in shame, The man is brave, although both young and rash, My comrade from my early boyhood days; And now implacability were worse Than frivolous condoning of the fault. And penance, too, methinks, he's done enough For months an exile on our kingdom's bounds. [_At a nod from the_ QUEEN, _one of the ladies of her suite withdraws._] And yet she goes: O Modesty More chaste than chastity itself! _Enter_ GARCERAN. My friend, What of the border? Are they all out there So shy with maiden-modesty as you? Then poorly guarded is our realm indeed! GARCERAN. A doughty soldier, Sire, ne'er fears a foe, But noble women's righteous wrath is hard.