Now the mere mouth-piece of its victory—
Oh, shall not I, the champion’s sword laid down,
Be yet more shamed to wear the teacher’s gown,
And, blushing at the part I had to play,
Down where that honour’d head I was to lay
By this more just submission of my own,
The treason Fate has forced on me atone?
King. Oh, Segismund, in whom I see indeed,
Out of the ashes of my self-extinction
A better self revive; if not beneath