And you, dear youths, the comforters of age,
Come cling about my neck. Those rags of woe,
My brother, lay aside, and spare mine eyes;
And clothe thyself more fittingly in these,525
The equal of my own. And, last of all,
Accept thine equal share of this our realm.
'Twill bring a greater meed of praise to me,
To restore thee safely to thy father's throne.
For chance may put the scepter in our hands;
But only virtue seeks to give it up.