Act II, scene vii
At the docks. Enter Marco Polo, to the strumming of an ill-tuned zither.
Come fi down diddle ...
                                      no ... how runs that song?
Fie, I have quite forgot ...
sing Foddle-oddle-oy?
The house of Polo fell a-down,
In rubble lies the throne.
The noble Bosun gains the crown,
And wins the fair Ran ...
There is a loud banging off-stage. Polo stops singing and looks round in amazement.
What haps thereby? A furnace or a fight?
Foundry or fisticuffs? Felony or fish?
A fashion of ...
Enter Schiller and Carybdis with a document.
                           What traitor made this chart
Whereby the richest source of excellent loam
Is severed in its prime? The King's gone mad!
Is this the wharf? Is this the dock you meant?
Is this the haven whence our wealth derived?
Whose is yon comely sloop, at anchor there?
It is the sloop of Harris, he of yore
Beknownst to us who patronized his club
Ere that the sherriff closed it in his ire
And bade the smugglers roosting there depart.
But he's best spoke of low or not at all!
Aye, that is so. But in this time of strife
Such matters cannot fail to be discussed
With anyone
                Nor less the like of us!
Aye so! Well spoken, Carybd of that ilk
And yet, this sombre chart, what recks it us?
My distant kin, then monarch, now is crazed
With treason's breath; his love, so long forgot
Should plague him sooner than the loss of loam
If either were as true.
                           We'll to the King!
Make haste, and we'll forestall his sickening.
Exeunt omnes.

Next scene