A Comedy of Errors in Seven Acts | Page 3

Yet it were better Wilhelm were left out
For he hath visions which from tender
plants
To forest monarchs grow, with roots so
deep
Emplanted in the soil, that naught can
stir.
Beside, financial ills have him beset,
And he now eager, filthy lucre seeks.
_Francos:_ Most honored sire, I would from Quezox learn
What stern encounters I must early meet.
He from the first did see the
canker grow
And hath a remedy, methinks, conceived.
_Caesar:_
Speak, Quezox, speak! and free thy surging mind.
For well I know abuses rankle there.
Our enemies politic, firm entrenched,
Have borne with heavy hand upon thy race.
_Quezox:_ Ah noble sire, how well thy mind conceives
The ills which bear my hapless people down.
Much learning fits thee
for the ruler's seat
And keen discernment flashes from thine eye.

There pigmies move within a circle charmed
And fatten on rich spoils
with cruel glee.
They force their alien ways with tyrant hands
Upon
my people; and with cold disdain
Refuse our council, when 'twere
meet and wise.
I beg thee, cast them out, both root and branch
And
clean official nests from grafty filth.
Our patriots, able, then can claim
their own
And on the ruins build a blissful state.
_Caesar:_ Most

noble Quezox, thou hast touched the sore.
I n Francos thou wilt find a helping hand,
Council him wise for he the subtle wiles
Of crafty scheming men may not discern.
_Quezox:_ Ah, noble sir, if I advice may breathe,
It were to shun the brood of vultures well.
They're skilled indeed to
sing the siren's song, And play with flattery on honest minds.
I feel
'twere well to journey to these Isles
In company with Francos, at thy
will,
Thus guarding him from every idle tongue,
Which might make
impress on an open heart.
_Caesar:_ Sweet Quezox, thou art wise, it
shall be done.
And as you journey, meditate and plan
T o lop off every head that blocks thy way,
Or lacks in sympathy for thy great work.
For Francos hath been trained for civic
life
Where virtue reigns and intrigue hath no
place.
But with thine aid and to guide a fearless
soul,
And Tammany his pattern, all were well.
_Francos:_ Great Caesar, trust me well; I smell the
rot
that distance cannot smother, and will
clean
The halls of state, and there implant true men.
_Caesar:_ And silence!
speak nor write not idle words,
For they are often swords which cleave
the soul;
When enemies who wield a cunning hand
Shall thrust them back, and laugh in
gleeful scorn.
E'en I regret what in an idle hour,
I thoughtless paged regarding freedom's