[Falls on the ground.
Enter[139] Andrugio, Lucio, and Page.
And. Come, Lucio, let’s go eat: what hast thou got? 30
Roots, roots? alas, they are seeded, new cut up.
O, thou hast wrongèd Nature, Lucio:
But boots not much; thou but pursu’st the world,
That cuts off virtue, ’fore it comes to growth,
Lest it should seed, and so o’errun her son,
Dull purblind error.—Give me water, boy.
There is no poison in’t, I hope; they say
That lu[r]ks in massy plate: and yet the earth
Is so infected with a general plague,
That he’s most wise, that thinks there’s no man fool; 40
Right prudent, that esteems no creature just;
Great policy the least things to mistrust.
Give me assay[140] ——. How we mock greatness now!
Lu. A strong conceit is rich, so most men deem;
If not to be, ’tis comfort yet to seem.
And. Why man, I never was a prince till now.
’Tis not the barèd pate, the bended knees,
Gilt tipstaves, Tyrrian purple, chairs of state,
Troops of pied butterflies that flutter still
In greatness’ summer, that confirm a prince: 50
’Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes,
Shouting and clapping, with confusèd din,
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he’s a king,
A true right king, that dares do aught save wrong;
Fears nothing mortal but to be unjust;
Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs
Of spongy sycophants; who stands unmov’d,
Despite the justling of opinion;
Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng
That strive to press his quiet out of him; 60
Who sits upon Jove’s footstool, as I do,
Adoring, not affecting, majesty;
Whose brow is wreathèd with the silver crown
Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king,
And of this empire every man’s possest
That’s worth his soul.
Lu. My Lord, the Genoways had wont to say—
And. Name not the Genoways: that very word
Unkings me quite, makes me vile passion’s slave.
O, you that slide[141] upon the glibbery ice 70
Of vulgar favour, view Andrugio.
Was never prince with more applause confirm’d,
With louder shouts of triumph launchèd out
Into the surgy main of government;
Was never prince with more despite cast out,
Left shipwrack’d, banish’d, on more guiltless ground.
O rotten props of the crazed multitude,
How you still double, falter under the lightest chance
That strains your veins! Alas, one battle lost,
Your whorish love, your drunken healths, your houts[142] and shouts, 80
Your smooth God save’s, and all your devils lost[143]
That tempts our quiet to your hell of throngs!
Spit on me, Lucio, for I am turnèd slave:
Observe how passion domineers o’er me.