King monologue — The Purgatory of St. Patrick

I but wanted this alone After what I've heard, that he Who escaped from slavery, And to distant Rome had flown, Now with purpose too well known, Has to Ireland come again, Where proclaiming the new reign Of the faith, he has enticed Many to believe in Christ, Rending all the world in twain. A magician he must be, Since condemned, so rumour saith, By some other kings to death, He though tied upon the tree In an instant set him free, With such prodigies of wonder That the earth (within whose womb The dead lie as in a tomb) Trembled, the air groaned in thunder, Dark eclipse the sun lay under, Deigning not a single glance Of his radiant countenance To the moon: from which I see That this Patrick, for 'tis he, Lords it over fate and chance; Awe-struck by the prodigy, Fearing they may punished be, Crowds attend him on his way. And 'tis said that he to-day Comes to try his spells on me. Let him come, and once for all Wave in vain his conjuring rod! We shall see who is this God, Whom their God the Christians call. By my hand must Patrick fall, Were it but to see if he Can escape his destiny, Or my will subvert and master, He this Bishop, he this Pastor, He Pope's Legate, though he be.