The golden yoke, Assyria's gift of peace.

NAAMAN: [_Starting forward eagerly._]
There is no peace beneath a conqueror's yoke,
My King, but shame and heaviness of heart!
For every state that barters liberty
To win imperial favour, shall be drained
Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars
To make the empire greater. Here's the choice:
We fight to-day to keep our country free,
Or else we fight forevermore to help
Assyria bind the world as we are bound.
I am a soldier, and I know the hell
Of war! But I will gladly ride through hell
To save Damascus. Master, bid me ride!
Ten thousand chariots wait for your command;
And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash
Of patience till you let them go; a throng
Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea
Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset!
O master, let me launch your mighty host
Against the Bull,--we'll bring him to his knees!

[_Cries of "War!" from the soldiers and the people; "peace!" from the
courtiers and the priests. The King rises, turning toward NAAMAN, and
seems about to speak. REZON lifts his rod._]

REZON:
Shall not the gods decide when mortals doubt?
Rimmon is master of the city's fate;