SCENE I.--_Bosphorus. The King's palace. The_ KING, _in anxiousthought. To him_ LYSIMACHUS, _afterwards_ ASANDER. _Enter_ LYSIMACHUS. _Lys._ What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent By such a load of care? _King._ Lysimachus, The load of empire lies a weary weight, On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile, And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene, Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest-- None better in my realm--through what wild waves, Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus, Laden with all our love, reels madly on To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North, Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor Dallies within his closed seraglios, Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome, While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood, Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South, Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye, Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy Of her republican guile in every check And buffet envious Fortune deals our State, Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow, My son Asander's youth may prove too weak To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee, Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm May break the mesh of Fate? _Lys._ Indeed, my liege, Too well I know our need, and long have tossed Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find Some remedy, but that which I have found Shows worse than the disease. _King._ Nay, speak; what is it? I know how wise thy thought. --This text refers to the Kindle Edition edition.