him, and the west
    His feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste;
    He pauses at your gate, invincible,—­
    To offer peace.  The princes of your court,
    The priests of Rimmon’s house, and you, the King,
    If you pay homage to your Overlord,
    Shall rest secure, and flourish as our friends. 
    Assyria sends to you this gilded yoke;
    Receive it as the sign of proffered peace.

        [He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.]

BENHADAD: 
    What of the city?  Said your king no word
    Of our Damascus, and the many folk
    That do inhabit her and make her great? 
    What of the soldiers who have fought for us?

WHITE ENVOY: 
    Of these my royal master did not speak.

BENHADAD: 
    Strange silence!  Must we give them up to him? 
    Is this the price at which he offers us
    The yoke of peace?  What if we do refuse?

RED ENVOY:  [Stepping forward.]
    Then ruthless war!  War to the uttermost. 
    No quarter, no compassion, no escape! 
    The Bull will gore and trample in his fury
    Nobles and priests and king,—­none shall be spared! 
    Before the throne we lay our second gift;
    This bloody horn, the symbol of red war.

[He lays a long bull’s horn, stained with blood, on
the steps of the throne.]

WHITE ENVOY: 
    Our message is delivered.  We return
    Unto our master.  He will wait three days
    To know your royal choice between his gifts. 
    Keep which you will and send the other back. 
    The red bull’s horn your youngest page may bring;
    But with the yoke, best send your mightiest army!

[The ENVOYS retire, amid confused murmurs of the
people, the King silent, his head, sunken on his
breast.]

BENHADAD: 
    Proud words, a bitter message, hard to endure! 
    We are not now that force which feared no foe: 
    Our old allies have left us.  Can we face the Bull
    Alone, and beat him back?  Give me your counsel.

[Many speak at once, confusedly.]

What babblement is this?  Were ye born at Babel? 
Give me clear words and reasonable speech.

RAKHAZ:  [Pompously.]
    O King, I am a reasonable man! 
    And there be some who call me very wise
    And prudent; but of this I will not speak,
    For I am also modest.  Let me plead,
    Persuade, and reason you to choose for peace. 
    This golden yoke may be a bitter draught,
    But better far to fold it in our arms,
    Than risk our cargoes in the savage horn
    Of war.  Shall we imperil all our wealth,
    Our valuable lives?  Nobles are few,
    Rich men are rare, and wise men rarer still;
    The precious jewels on the tree of life,
    Wherein the common people are but bricks
    And clay and rubble.  Let the city go,
    But save the corner-stones that float the ship! 
    Have I not spoken well?