That license ranks as liberty, and law
And order seem but forms of tyranny.
I cannot journey but a hundred knives
Attempt my life; I cannot sleep or eat
Within my very palace but the floors
Rise to assault me, and the walls resound
With treacherous murder’s dread artillery.
This is my son, a true bred Romanoff,
To whom I leave my labours and my crown:
His years are fewer; and the sapling grows