Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/359

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OTHO THE GREAT.
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Slow, and demure, and proud in his despair.If I may judge by his so tragic bearing,His eye not downcast, and his folded arm,He doth this moment wish himself asleepAmong his fallen captains on yon plains.
Enter Gersa in chains, and guarded,
 Otho. Well said, Sir Albert.
 Gersa.Not a word of greeting,No welcome to a princely visitor,Most mighty Otho? Will not my great hostVouchsafe a syllable, before he bidsHis gentlemen conduct me with all careTo some securest lodging—cold perhaps!
 Otho. What a mood is this? Hath fortune touch'd thy brain?
 Gersa. O kings and princes of this fev'rous world,What abject things, what mockeries must ye be,What nerveless minions of safe palaces!When here, a monarch, whose proud foot is usedTo fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup,Must needs exclaim that I am mad forsooth,Because I cannot flatter with bent kneesMy conqueror!
 Otho.Gersa, I think you wrong me:I think I have a better fame abroad.
 Gersa. I pr'ythee mock me not with gentle speech,But, as a favor, bid me from thy presence;Let me no longer be the wondering foodOf all these eyes; pr'ythee command me hence!
 Otho. Do not mistake me, Gersa. That you may not.
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