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Ingraziatoro: Good Queen, your humblest servant is beset around
By fiendish trials of others’ making.
Our staff are alive with fury.

Provocatoria: How so?

Ingraziatoro: The antics of these o’er paid hirelings
Whose fancy pantaloons sing songs of uncommon luck
Unearnèd and not deserving
To th’ minds of thy rankled loyalty.

Provocatoria: I see their point, Ingraziatoro:
Your new privateers have shown good skill From hand to mouth with our meat and drink,
But less adeptness with the shoulder.
For all your talk of growing pies
Theirs’ a fine job making ours smaller.

Ingraziatoro: I am, my liege, obliged
For your accommodation of my point.

Provocatoria: To a point, Lord Ingraziatoro, to a point.

Ingraziatoro: M’lady surely sees the problem?

Provocatoria: That she does, and who’s its owner. He stands afore me.

Ingraziatoro: What’s mine is yours, my liege —

provocatoria: Aye, but only as a second-loss. Yours first, good sir.
Now: what is thy petition? Speak it quickly.

Ingraziatoro: My loyal men grow restive!
We must apace reward their service ’ere they quit the field—

nuncle: —Pasture, me thinks.

Ingraziatoro: —And leave thy shores defended only with these interloping halfwits!

Provocatoria: We must what?

Ingraziatoro: We must compete! Raise their pay!
This daily war for talent is intense.
The necessary investment is immense.

Nuncle: Cometh down the man, cometh down the hour?

Provocatoria: Your queen cameth down not in the latest shower.