Returning his bow with a slight demi-bob, And replacing the watch in his hand in his fob, "My Lord," said the King, "here's a rather tough job, Which it seems, of a sort is To puzzle our _Cortes_. And since it has quite flabbergasted that Diet, I Look to your Grace with no little anxiety Concerning a point Which has quite out of joint Put us all with respect to the good of society:-- Your Grace is aware That we've not got an Heir; Now, it seems, one and all, they don't stick to declare That of all our advisers there is not in Spain one Can tell, like your Grace, the best way to obtain one; So put your considering cap on--we're curious To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias." One without the nice tact Of his Grace would have backt Out at once, as the Noblemen did,--and, in fact, He was, at the first, rather pozed how to act-- One moment--no more!--Bowing then, as before, He said, "Sire, 'twere superfluous for me to acquaint The 'Most Catholic King' in the world, that a Saint Is the usual resource In these cases,--of course Of their influence your Majesty well knows the force; If I may be, therefore, allow'd to suggest The plan which occurs to my mind as the best, Your Majesty may go At once to St. Jago, Whom, as Spain's patron Saint, I pick out from the rest; If your Majesty looks Into Guthrie, or Brooks, In all the approved Geographical books, You will find Compostella laid down in the maps Some two hundred and sev'nty miles off; and, perhaps, In a case so important, you may not decline A pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine; And, Sire, should you choose To put peas in your shoes, The Saint, as a Gentleman, can't well refuse So distinguish'd a Pilgrim,--especially when he Considers the boon will not cost him one penny!" His speech ended, his Grace bow'd, and put on his mitre As tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter. "Pooh! pooh!" says the King, "I shall do no such thing! It's nonsense,--Old fellow--you see--no use talking-- The peas set apart, I abominate walking-- Such a deuced way off, too--hey?--walk there--what me? Pooh!--it's no Go, Old fellow!--you know--don't you see?" "Well, Sire," with much sweetness the Prelate replied, "If your Majesty don't like to walk--you can ride! And then, if you please, In lieu of the peas, A small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert, As a substitute, under your Majesty's shirt; Then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,-- A few nettles tuck'd into your Majesty's waistband,-- Asafœtida mix'd with your _bouquet_ and civet, I'll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!"