[EXEUNT ALL BUT KING, QUEEN, AND ARCHY.]
ARCHY: Ay, I am the physician of whom Plato prophesied, who was to be accused by the confectioner before a jury of children, who found him guilty without waiting for the summing-up, and hanged him without benefit of clergy. Thus Baby Charles, and the Twelfth-night Queen of Hearts, and the overgrown schoolboy Cottington, and that little urchin Laud—who would reduce a verdict of ‘guilty, death,’ by famine, if it were impregnable by composition—all impannelled against poor Archy for presenting them bitter physic the last day of the holidays. _397
QUEEN:
Is the rain over, sirrah?
KING:
When it rains
And the sun shines, ‘twill rain again to-morrow:
And therefore never smile till you’ve done crying. _400
ARCHY: But ’tis all over now: like the April anger of woman, the gentle sky has wept itself serene.
QUEEN:
What news abroad? how looks the world this morning?
ARCHY: Gloriously as a grave covered with virgin flowers. There’s a rainbow in the sky. Let your Majesty look at it, for
‘A rainbow in the morning _407
Is the shepherd’s warning;’
and the flocks of which you are the pastor are scattered among the mountain-tops, where every drop of water is a flake of snow, and the breath of May pierces like a January blast. _411
KING: The sheep have mistaken the wolf for their shepherd, my poor boy; and the shepherd, the wolves for their watchdogs.