_Alb._ But why this day more lucky than the rest? _Con._ Because this day Is sacred to the patron of our isle; A christian and a soldier's annual feast. _Alb._ Oh, now I understand you. This is St George of Cappadocia's day. Well, it may be so, but faith I was ignorant. We soldiers seldom examine the rubrick, and now and then a saint may happen to slip by us; but, if he be a gentleman saint, he will forgive us. _Con._ Oswald undoubtedly will fight it bravely. _Aur._ And it behoves him well, 'tis his last stake. But what manner of man is this Oswald? Have you ever seen him? [_To_ ALBANACT. _Alb._ Never but once; and that was to my cost too. I followed him too close, and, to say the truth, somewhat uncivilly, upon a rout; but he turned upon me, as quick and as round as a chafed boar, and gave me two licks a-cross the face, to put me in mind of my Christianity. _Con._ I know him well; he's free and open-hearted. _Aur._ His country's character: that speaks a German. _Con._ Revengeful, rugged, violently brave; And, once resolved, is never to be moved. _Alb._ Yes, he's a valiant dog, pox on him! _Con._ This was the character he then maintained, When in my court he sought my daughter's love, My fair, blind Emmeline. _Alb._ I cannot blame him for courting the heiress of Cornwall. All heiresses are beautiful; and, as blind as she is, he would have had no blind bargain of her. _Aur._ For that defeat in love, he raised this war; For royal Arthur reigned within her heart, Ere Oswald moved his suit. _Con._ Ay, now, Aurelius, you have named a man; One, whom, besides the homage that I owe, As Cornwall's duke, to his imperial crown, I would have chosen out, from all mankind, To be my sovereign lord. _Aur._ His worth divides him from the crowd of kings; So born, without desert to be so born; Men, set aloft to be the scourge of heaven, And, with long arms, to lash the under-world. _Con._ Arthur is all that's excellent in Oswald, And void of all his faults. In battle brave, But still serene in all the stormy war, Like heaven above the clouds; and after fight, As merciful and kind to vanquished foes, As a forgiving God. But see, he's here, And praise is dumb before him. _Enter King_ ARTHUR, _reading a letter, with Attendants_. Arth. [_Reading._] "Go on, auspicious prince, the stars are kind: Unfold thy banners to the willing wind; While I, with airy legions, help thy arms; Confronting art with art, and charms with charms." So Merlin writes; nor can we doubt the event, [ _To_ CONON. With Heaven and you to friends. Oh noble Conon, You taught my tender hands the trade of war; And now again you helm your hoary head, And, under double weight of age and arms, Assert your country's freedom and my crown. _Con._ No more, my son.