In which The King passes judgement on The Prince, his son, setting the course of his life to follow, and ending our tale.

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“My child,” The King responded firm, “of late
I’ve heard you roam the grounds with gentle gait
Whistling for nymphs and singing songs of love
To flowers low and trees that loom above,
Speaking with painters, getting drunk on wine,
Yet never contemplating the divine
Purpose of we who wear this heavy crown
Which works to pull such lofty spirits down.
And now you try through love to muse inspire
Thinking a high escape you may conspire
To any clouded place of your design,
Sensing we seek through duty to confine
Your aching spirit to this barren court
And any joyous avenues thus thwart.
Alas, this much is true for duty binds
Together our proud kingdom, lest those minds,
Fantastical, hold not our borders firm
And leave our consulship to the infirm
Dooming our fields to rot and tithes to lie
Without collection. Such you may rely
Would be the fate of all you may inherit
When pass I from this realm in death’s black habit.
A kingdom rich in poverty awaits you
Where subjects that will worship you are few,
Should you trust this ‘muse’ to bear you on
With honeyed words and art’s majestic con.
For majesty is bought with golden coin,
And as this low-born wench you wish to join
In matrimony has no coin to offer,
No grand alliance for our state and coffer,
Fall would our kingdom into disrepute
All for the wish for love and verses...