Seg. 
     And I remember
     How the old man they call’d the King, who wore
     The crown of gold about his silver hair,
     And a mysterious girdle round his waist,
     Just when my rage was roaring at its height,
     And after which it all was dark again,
     Bid me beware lest all should be a dream.

     CLO. 
     Ay—­there another specialty of dreams,
     That once the dreamer ’gins to dream he dreams,
     His foot is on the very verge of waking.

     Seg. 
     Would it had been upon the verge of death
     That knows no waking—­
     Lifting me up to glory, to fall back,
     Stunn’d, crippled—­wretcheder than ev’n before.

     CLO. 
     Yet not so glorious, Segismund, if you
     Your visionary honour wore so ill
     As to work murder and revenge on those
     Who meant you well.

     Seg. 
     Who meant me!—­me! their Prince
     Chain’d like a felon—­

     CLO. 
     Stay, stay—­Not so fast,
     You dream’d the Prince, remember.

     Seg. 
     Then in dream
     Revenged it only.

     CLO. 
     True.  But as they say
     Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul
     Yet uncorrected of the higher Will,
     So that men sometimes in their dreams confess
     An unsuspected, or forgotten, self;
     One must beware to check—­ay, if one may,
     Stifle ere born, such passion in ourselves
     As makes, we see, such havoc with our sleep,
     And ill reacts upon the waking day. 
     And, by the bye, for one test, Segismund,
     Between such swearable realities—­
     Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin
     In missing each that salutary rein
     Of reason, and the guiding will of man: 
     One test, I think, of waking sanity
     Shall be that conscious power of self-control,
     To curb all passion, but much most of all
     That evil and vindictive, that ill squares
     With human, and with holy canon less,
     Which bids us pardon ev’n our enemies,
     And much more those who, out of no ill will,
     Mistakenly have taken up the rod
     Which heaven, they think, has put into their hands.

     Seg. 
     I think I soon shall have to try again—­
     Sleep has not yet done with me.

     CLO. 
     Such a sleep. 
     Take my advice—­’tis early yet—­the sun
     Scarce up above the mountain; go within,
     And if the night deceived you, try anew
     With morning; morning dreams they say come true.

     Seg. 
     Oh, rather pray for me a sleep so fast
     As shall obliterate dream and waking too.

     (Exit into the tower.)