Now, don't you be so silly. Her suitors are not dragged here willy-nilly; They know the journey here their heads may cost 'em, But 'tis no loss; for they've already lost 'em. Perhaps that's why the riddles they can't guess, And always fall into a hideous mess. I'm sure my charming mistress is most lenient To have devised a method so convenient To rid herself, and China, of such geese; Much harder tasks,--to fetch the golden fleece-- Or singing water--or the talking bird-- Were formerly exacted, as I've heard. My lovely Highness is not so inhuman, She only tests her sweethearts' fine acumen; And if she must submit to husband's rule, At least she'll not be governed by a fool. (_March music is heard._) BRIG. The royal trumpets sound. Hark, don't you hear 'em. TRUF. I'll run t'escort my Princess from her hareem. Be off! and guard the palace portals, Let none pass thro' but Mandarin-born mortals. (_Exeunt severally._) (_Enter guards and musicians; then eight doctors pedantically dressed;_ PANTALOON _and_ TARTAGLIA _in characteristic costumes; then the_ KHAN ALTOUM, _in extravagantly rich attire, he ascends his throne_, PANT. and TART. _station themselves near it_. _At his entrance, all prostrate themselves, their foreheads to the ground, and remain thus until he is seated._ _At a sign from_ PANTALOON, _the march ceases_.) ALT. Good folk, behold your monarch much perplexed, I must confess I'm seriously vexed. My daughter's obstinacy quite unnerves me, Such unforeseen and jadish tricks she serves me. One charming prince was killed this morn, at six; Another's just arrived,--I'm in a fix, And worritted to death by constant butch'ry, Of lovers caught by my fair daughter's witch'ry; But yet I cannot break my oath. Fo-hi Has heard my vow; his wrath I dar'n't defy. Prime Minister, can't you some project form And be your monarch's rudder thro' this storm? PANT. Celestial Majesty-- ALT. What do you say? PANT. (_aside_.) The loudest bawling's all time thrown away! He's deaf as any post--a perfect dummy-- It's no use preaching wisdom to a mummy. I wish I were in Venice back again! I had to fly her happy shores, on pain Of being hanged, or losing liberty, Because the bigwigs thought my tongue too free. I hoped, as minister, I was secure To fatten in an easy sinecure; Instead of which, I've not one moment's leisure; No carnival, nor any Christian pleasure. But constant squabbles, tears, and imprecations, Divans, beheadings, sphinxes,--I've lost patience! I'll quit this land of pigtails, gongs, and teas; Return to Italy, and live at ease. ALT. I _see_ you're talking; speak a little louder. PANT. (_aside_.) He wouldn't hear the bursting of gunpowder. ALT. Tartaglia, have you seen this poor young fellow? TART. (_stammering, until he speaks Italian very glibly_)-- Y-y-your h-hi-high-ness, y-y-es, a-and f-f-found h-hi-him--_molto bello_. ALT. What do you say? TART.