University of Virginia Library

SCENE The Camp.
Enter Cristiern, Attendants, &c. Trollio meets him.
Troll.
All hail most mighty of the Thrones of Europe!
The Morn salutes thee with auspicious Brightness,
No Vapour frowns prophetic on her Brow,
But the clear Sun who travels with thy Arms
Still smiles, attendant on thy growing Greatness:
His Evening Eye shall see thee peaceful Lord
Of all the North, of utmost Scandinavia;
Whence thou may'st pour thy Conquests o'er the Earth,
'Till farthest India glows beneath thy Empire,
And Lybia knows no regal Name but yours.

Crist.
Yes, Trollio, I confess the Godlike Thirst,
Ambition, that wou'd drink a Sea of Glory.
But what from Dalecarlia?

Troll.
Late last Night,
I sent a trusty Slave to Peterson,
And hourly wait some Tidings.

Crist.
Think you?—Sure
The Wretches will not dare such quick Perdition.

Troll.
I think they will not—Tho' of old I know them
All born to Broils, the very Sons of Tumult;
Waste is their Wealth, and Mutiny their Birthright,
And this the yearly Fever of their Blood,
Their Holiday of War; a Day apart,
Torn out from Peace, and sacred to Rebellion.
Oft has their Battle hung upon the Brow
Of yon wild Steep, a living Cloud of Mischiefs,
Pregnant with Plagues, and empty'd on the Heads
Of many a Monarch.

Crist.
Monarchs they were not,
Pageants of Wax, the Mouldings of the Populace,
Tame paultry Idols, scepter'd up for Shew,
And garnish'd into Royalty—No Trollio
Kings should be felt if they wou'd find Obedience;
The Beast has Sense enough to know his Rider,
When the Knee trembles, and the Hand grows slack,
He casts for Liberty: but bends and turns
For him that leaps with Boldness on his Back,
And spurs him to the Bit.