PEHR. That will do! Where's the author? Author!
POET LAUREATE. Your Highness, I have not learned to flatter.
PEHR. Haven't you? That's a poor poet laureate! Then play up your strophe so we may hear if you lie.
POET LAUREATE. Your Highness—surely I can never question—
PEHR. Don't talk—just reel off!
The soul hath lost itself since love's flame it hath grasped,
Nor doth it awaken to reason, under the witchcraft of eyes.
But my love for hinds I leave—
PEHR. Pardon—what did you say?
POET LAUREATE. [Irritated.]
My love for hinds I leave and cherish a noble prince,
Generous and well born—nor tainted by low base deeds;
The prince who hath vanquished his foemen. Whatever the cost might be,
Strong in the Faith is he! Heresy's dreaded scourge!
PEHR. [Springs to his feet.] Do you mean it seriously or are you joking?