I beg—implore you—by yon heavenly dome,
By all the stones of our ancestral home,
By yonder moat, so full of little snakes,
Which you delight to feed with buckwheat cakes.
(King weeps.)
He weeps! he yields!
King (sobbing).—
My daughter, we relent;
We will abandon our unjust intent;—
But no!—the martial fire in us burns.