Save yourself, my lord!

Even tidal waves don’t rush across the land as fast and powerfully as young Laertes and his rebels. The rabble are calling him Lord, disregarding all our civil structures, wanting to sweep them away.

They’re shouting, “we are choosing: Laertes will be king.” Their caps, hands and tongues are raised to the skies, crying: “Laertes for king, Laertes king!”