Enough for him when she had breathed a word:
’Twas his to make it iron, stone, or fire,
Driving our flesh and blood before his ways
As the wind straws. Her one face unregarded
Waiting you with your mantle or your glove—
That is the God whom he is gone to worship.
(Trumpets without. Enter the Prince’s Heralds.)
And here’s the work of Kingship begun again.
These from the Prince of Bargi—to whose sword
You owe such help as may, he thinks, be paid....