The King soliloquizing on a prophecy of a far greater son to be born, bound to eclipse all his father's feats by the mere action of a finger.
Lo, the powers preemptive preordain this my son soon
Eclipse me, matchless though i be now, as moon
Doth an oil-lamp, and spawl upon this great throne,
In setting forth abroad to set up one his own,
Far richer set in gilt preeminence,
That none who kiss my feet now might in's prescience
Dream to see this boy in his might appearing
Featly make seem a god-king such scarecrowish thing!
Thus I, foreknowing, sit this stool wrinkled like tuckets,
Worse care-riddled than misers be of pickpockets!
Yet fret wherefore?! Who may stop the work of Creation
That stop not his small life 'neath the great coming-on?
'Twixt thus this dread and this hope stands my Queen adjudicatrix,
To charm me from fear, and preen this certain hope with flaxen tricks!