Nap. Can nothing, then, be done
With those troops of Arragon?
Mur. We have none that on them
Will venture to advance.
Nap. But Moncey's triumphant
In the kingdom of Valence?
Mur. Sire, he has dropped his ears,
And slunk away, ashamed;
Those Valencians have a way
Their enemies to tame.
They mount on swiftest steeds,
And, running a swift career,
Unhorse the astonished foe
Before he is aware.
Nap. It seems, then, that maxims,
And lying, and caution
Have failed in that country;
But who had a notion
That Spain would be equal
To France in a contest?
We now can do nothing
But send for Funest.[177]
Mur. And how can he get here,
When the Portuguese men,
With the Spaniards united,
Have him closely shut in,
With sentinels stationed?
No help can avail him,
For surrender he must,
When eatables fail him.
The best thing to do, is
To yield to their clamor,
And give back the king
That Spaniards all honor.
Perhaps, sire, if—with him
Appeased and delighted—
They will let our troops go,
Your throne may be righted;
For upset it they will
At the rate they are making,
And cut off your head,
And from me be taking
My fine dukedom of Ver;
Or, if we escape, sire,
The fate I am dreading.
We'll have to sweep chimneys
Again for a living.
I've forgotten the trade,
And lost my dexterity;
But you, who were master,
Would mount with celerity.
Nap. Only a pitiful knave
Such memories would renew.
Mur. Well, sire, if that don't suit,
I've another thing in view;
We'll seek a brighter sphere,
And a foreign city find,
Where through the streets we'll rove,
Crying "Sci-i-issors to gri-ind."
"And which did he do, uncle?" asked one—"sweep chimneys or grind scissors?"
"He sweep chimneys!" exclaimed Uncle Bartolo. "Such people always fall into feather-beds! They carried him to St. Helena—beyond Gibraltar—where he had it quite comfortable till he died raving, after the devil had helped him to make that will."