Hud. Ha? Rest?
The twin of death! I'll rest when I am dust.
Nay, then I hope that storm and hurricane
Will keep me whirling. No,—I'll not go lame
Even in report. Say that this move concerns
My pleasure solely,—solely, Borduc.
Her. Father,
I have a suit. May I not go with you?
I long to make that land where you are loved,
More vivid than the dream that now it is.
Hud. And find what lodestar there draws Chartrien
From constancy? Well, you shall go.
Bor. Tut, tut!
Her. Dear father!
Hud. This will give domestic screen
And color to our tack.
Bor. A gadding throne—
Hud. Good Borduc, we will leave the throne at home.
Do not you stay?
Bor. I've some authority,
You'll not dispute, my lord. Much as may go
With broad election. My investiture
Lies in the people's choice.
Hud. Ay, you're their bark
Of freedom, where their pride may hoist full sail,
But who wots better, Bordy, that 'tis puffed
With winds that know my port?