The Saint's Tragedy

SCENE III

A Chamber in the Castle.  Sophia, Elizabeth, Agnes, Isentrude, etc., re-entering.

 
Soph.  What! you will not?  You hear, Dame Isentrude,
She will not wear her coronet in the church,
Because, forsooth, the crucifix within
Is crowned with thorns.  You hear her.
 
 
Eliz.  Noble mother!
How could I flaunt this bauble in His face
Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me—
I felt it shamelessness to go so gay.
 
 
Soph.  Felt?  What then?  Every foolish wench has feelings
In these religious days, and thinks it carnal
To wash her dishes, and obey her parents—
No wonder they ape you, if you ape them—
Go to!  I hate this humble-minded pride,
Self-willed submission—to your own pert fancies;
This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits,
Who make their oddities their test for grace,
And peer about to catch the general eye;
Ah!  I have watched you throw your playmates down
To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon.
Here’s sanctity—to shame your cousin and me—
Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;—
If God has made you noble, use your rank,
If you but know how.  You Landgravine?  You mated
With gentle Lewis?  Why, belike you’ll cowl him,
As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse;
No—one Hedwiga at a time’s enough,—
My son shall die no monk.
 
 
Isen.  Beseech you, Madam,—
Weep not, my darling.
 
 
Soph.  Tut—I’ll speak my mind.
We’ll have no saints.  Thank heaven, my saintliness
Ne’er troubled my good man, by day or night.
We’ll have no saints, I say; far better for you,
And no doubt pleasanter—You know your place—
At least you know your place,—to take to cloisters,
And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin,
With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens,
Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge.
There’s nothing noble in you, but your blood;
And that one almost doubts.  Who art thou, child?
 
 
Isen.  The daughter, please your highness,
Of Andreas, King of Hungary, your better;
And your son’s spouse.
 
 
Soph.  I had forgotten, truly—
And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant,
And mine: come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies
To say their prayers, and set the Saints the fashion.
 

[Sophia and Agnes go out.]

Isen.  Proud hussy!  Thou shalt set thy foot on her neck yet, darling,

When thou art Landgravine.

 
Eliz.  And when will that be?
No, she speaks truth!  I should have been a nun.
These are the wages of my cowardice,—
Too weak to face the world, too weak to leave it!
 
 
Guta.  I’ll take the veil with you.
 
 
Eliz.  ’Twere but a moment’s work,—
To slip into the convent there below,
And be at peace for ever.  And you, my nurse?
 
 
Isen.  I will go with thee, child, where’er thou goest.
But Lewis?
 
 
Eliz.  Ah! my brother!  No, I dare not—
I dare not turn for ever from this hope,
Though it be dwindled to a thread of mist.
Oh that we two could flee and leave this Babel!
Oh if he were but some poor chapel-priest,
In lonely mountain valleys far away;
And I his serving-maid, to work his vestments,
And dress his scrap of food, and see him stand
Before the altar like a rainbowed saint;
To take the blessed wafer from his hand,
Confess my heart to him, and all night long
Pray for him while he slept, or through the lattice
Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts
Swell in his big deep eyes!—Alas! that dream
Is wilder than the one that’s fading even now!
Who’s here?  [A Page enters.]
 

Page.  The Count of Varila, Madam, begs permission to speak with you.

 
Eliz.  With me?  What’s this new terror?
Tell him I wait him.
 
 
Isen [aside].  Ah! my old heart sinks—
God send us rescue!  Here the champion comes.
 

[Count Walter enters.]

 
Wal.  Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious Princess—
Plague, what comes next?  I had something orthodox ready;
’Tis dropped out by the way.—Mass! here’s the pith on’t.—
Madam, I come a-wooing; and for one
Who is as only worthy of your love,
As you of his; he bids me claim the spousals
Made long ago between you,—and yet leaves
Your fancy free, to grant or pass that claim:
And being that Mercury is not my planet,
He hath advised himself to set herein,
With pen and ink, what seemed good to him,
As passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge
Unworthy of his worship.  [Gives a letter and jewel.]
 
 
Isen.  Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam!
 

[Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps her hands and bursts into childish laughter.]

 
Why here’s my Christmas tree come after Lent—
Espousals? pledges? by our childish love?
Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars,—
And pretty presents come of them!  Look, Guta!
A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse
The blessed rood.  He told me once—one night,
When we did sit in the garden—What was I saying?
 
 
Wal.  My fairest Princess, as ambassador,
What shall I answer?
 
 
Eliz.  Tell him—tell him—God!
Have I grown mad, or a child, within the moment?
The earth has lost her gray sad hue, and blazes
With her old life-light; hark! yon wind’s a song—
Those clouds are angels’ robes.—That fiery west
Is paved with smiling faces.—I am a woman,
And all things bid me love! my dignity
Is thus to cast my virgin pride away;
And find my strength in weakness.—Busy brain!
Thou keep’st pace with my heart; old lore, old fancies,
Buried for years, leap from their tombs, and proffer
Their magic service to my new-born spirit.
I’ll go—I am not mistress of myself—
Send for him—bring him to me—he is mine!  [Exit.]
 
 
Isen.  Ah! blessed Saints! how changed upon the moment!
She is grown taller, trust me, and her eye
Flames like a fresh-caught hind’s.  She that was christened
A brown mouse for her stillness!  Good my Lord!
Now shall mine old bones see the grave in peace!
 

SCENE IV

The Bridal Feast.  Elizabeth, Lewis, Sophia, and Company seated at the Dais table.  Court Minstrel and Court Fool sitting on the Dais steps.

 
Min.  How gaily smile the heavens,
The light winds whisper gay;
For royal birth and knightly worth
Are knit to one to-day.
 
 
Fool [drowning his voice].
So we’ll flatter them up, and we’ll cocker them up,
Till we turn young brains;
And pamper the brach till we make her a wolf,
And get bit by the legs for our pains.
 
 
Monks [chanting without].
A fastu et superbiâ
Domine libera nos.
 
 
Min.  ’Neath sandal red and samité,
Are knights and ladies set;
The henchmen tall stride through the hall,
The board with wine is wet.
 
 
Fool.  Oh! merrily growls the starving hind,
At my full skin;
And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl,
While I lie warm within.
 
 
Monks.  A luxu et avaritiâ
Domine libera nos.
 
 
Min.  Hark! from the bridal bower,
Rings out the bridesmaid’s song;
‘’Tis the mystic hour of an untried power,
The bride she tarries long.’
 
 
Fool.  She’s schooling herself and she’s steeling herself,
Against the dreary day,
When she’ll pine and sigh from her lattice high
For the knight that’s far away.
 
 
Monks.  A carnis illectamentis
Domine libera nos.
 
 
Min.  Blest maid! fresh roses o’er thee
The careless years shall fling;
While days and nights shall new delights
To sense and fancy bring.
 
 
Fool.  Satins and silks, and feathers and lace,
Will gild life’s pill;
In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old,
Fine ladies will never fall ill.
 
 
Monks.  A vanitatibus sæculi
Domine libera nos.
 

[Sophia descends from the Dais, leading Elizabeth.  Ladies follow.]

 
Sophia [to the Fool].  Silence, you screech-owl.—
Come strew flowers, fair ladies,
And lead into her bower our fairest bride,
The cynosure of love and beauty here,
Who shrines heaven’s graces in earth’s richest casket.
 
 
Eliz.  I come, [aside] Here, Guta, take those monks a fee—
Tell them I thank them—bid them pray for me.
I am half mazed with trembling joy within,
And noisy wassail round.  ’Tis well, for else
The spectre of my duties and my dangers
Would whelm my heart with terror.  Ah! poor self!
Thou took’st this for the term and bourne of troubles—
And now ’tis here, thou findest it the gate
Of new sin-cursed infinities of labour,
Where thou must do, or die!
 

[aloud] Lead on.  I’ll follow.  [Exeunt.]

Fool.  There, now.  No fee for the fool; and yet my prescription was as good as those old Jeremies’.  But in law, physic, and divinity, folks had sooner be poisoned in Latin, than saved in the mother-tongue.

ACT II

SCENE I.  A.D. 1221-27

Elizabeth’s Bower.  Night.  Lewis sleeping in an Alcove.

Elizabeth lying on the Floor in the Foreground.

 
Eliz.  No streak yet in the blank and eyeless east—
More weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver
On these bare boards, within a step of bliss.
Why peevish?  ’Tis mine own will keeps me here—
And yet I hate myself for that same will:
Fightings within and out!  How easy ’twere, now,
Just to be like the rest, and let life run—
To use up to the rind what joys God sends us,
Not thus forestall His rod: What! and so lose
The strength which comes by suffering?  Well, if grief
Be gain, mine’s double—fleeing thus the snare
Of yon luxurious and unnerving down,
And widowed from mine Eden.  And why widowed?
Because they tell me, love is of the flesh,
And that’s our house-bred foe, the adder in our bosoms,
Which warmed to life, will sting us.  They must know—
I do confess mine ignorance, O Lord!
Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove.
. . . . .
And yet I swore to love him.—So I do
No more than I have sworn.  Am I to blame
If God makes wedlock that, which if it be not,
It were a shame for modest lips to speak it,
And silly doves are better mates than we?
And yet our love is Jesus’ due,—and all things
Which share with Him divided empery
Are snares and idols—‘To love, to cherish, and to obey!’
. . . . .
O deadly riddle!  Rent and twofold life!
O cruel troth!  To keep thee or to break thee
Alike seems sin!  O thou beloved tempter,
 

[Turning toward the bed.]

 
Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself
From God divert thy lesson?  Wilt provoke Him?
What if mine heavenly Spouse in jealous ire
Should smite mine earthly spouse?  Have I two husbands?
The words are horror—yet they are orthodox!
 

[Rises and goes to the window.]

 
How many many brows of happy lovers
The fragrant lips of night even now are kissing!
Some wandering hand in hand through arched lanes;
Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;
Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss;
Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms,
Whose touch makes sleep rich life.  The very birds
Within their nests are wooing!  So much love!
All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace;
The earth seems one vast bride-bed.  Doth God tempt us?
Is’t all a veil to blind our eyes from him?
A fire-fly at the candle.  ’Tis love leads him;
Love’s light, and light is love: O Eden!  Eden!
Eve was a virgin there, they say; God knows.
Must all this be as it had never been?
Is it all a fleeting type of higher love?
Why, if the lesson’s pure, is not the teacher
Pure also?  Is it my shame to feel no shame?
Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness?
Shall base emotions picture Christ’s embrace?
Rest, rest, torn heart!  Yet where? in earth or heaven?
Still, from out the bright abysses, gleams our Lady’s silver footstool,
Still the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the night-clouds fleet below.
Oh that I were walking, far above, upon that dappled pavement,
Heaven’s floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon where we lie.
Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding silent,
Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical!
They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the secret fountains
Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison clay.
Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek’st the lowest hollows?
Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest blue.
Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence—
Joining praises through the ages—Is it all a minstrel’s dream?
Alas! he wakes.  [Lewis rises.]
 
 
Lewis.  Ah! faithless beauty,
Is this your promise, that whene’er you prayed
I should be still the partner of your vigils,
And learn from you to pray?  Last night I lay dissembling
When she who woke you, took my feet for yours:
Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.
Alas! what’s this?  These shoulders’ cushioned ice,
And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all,
And weeping furrows traced!  Ah! precious life-blood!
Who has done this?
 
 
Eliz.  Forgive! ’twas I—my maidens—
 
 
Lewis.  O ruthless hags!
 
 
Eliz.  Not so, not so—They wept
When I did bid them, as I bid thee now
To think of nought but love.
 
 
Lewis.  Elizabeth!
Speak!  I will know the meaning of this madness!
 
 
Eliz.  Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls,
In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh
By such sharp lessons.  I must tread their paths,
If I would climb the mountains where they rest.
Grief is the gate of bliss—why wedlock—knighthood—
A mother’s joy—a hard-earned field of glory—
By tribulation come—so doth God’s kingdom.
 
 
Lewis.  But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures—
Are these the love of God?  Is He well pleased
With this stern holocaust of health and joy?
 
 
Eliz.  What!  Am I not as gay a lady-love
As ever clipt in arms a noble knight?
Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day?
It pleases me to bear what you call pain,
Therefore to me ’tis pleasure: joy and grief
Are the will’s creatures; martyrs kiss the stake—
The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze—
The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count
His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love,
Eve’s curse lays suffering, as their natural lot,
On womankind, till custom makes it light.
I know the use of pain: bar not the leech
Because his cure is bitter—’Tis such medicine
Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion,
For which you say you love me.—Ay, which brings
Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy
As its attendant angel—I’ll say no more—
Not even to thee—command, and I’ll obey thee.
 
 
Lewis.  Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder
Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom!  Canst thou
Beatify the ascetic’s savagery
To heavenly prudence?  Horror melts to pity,
And pity kindles to adoring shower
Of radiant tears!  Thou tender cruelty!
Gay smiling martyrdom!  Shall I forbid thee?
Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness?
Thy courage by my weakness?  Where thou darest,
I’ll shudder and submit.  I kneel here spell-bound
Before my bleeding Saviour’s living likeness
To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things,
Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood
Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore
’Twas beautiful, ’twas Christ-like—had I thought
That thou wert such:—
 
 
Eliz.  You would have loved me still?
 
 
Lewis.  I have gone mad, I think, at every parting
At mine own terrors for thee.  No; I’ll learn to glory
In that which makes thee glorious!  Noble stains!
I’ll call them rose leaves out of paradise
Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped
From martyrs’ diadems, prints of Jesus’ cross
Too truly borne, alas!
 
 
Eliz.  I think, mine own,
I am forgiven at last?
 
 
Lewis.  To-night, my sister—
Henceforth I’ll clasp thee to my heart so fast
Thou shalt not ’scape unnoticed.
 
 
Eliz [laughing]  We shall see—
Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss,
And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss.
 

SCENE II

A Chamber in the Castle.  Elizabeth—the Fool

Isentrudis—Guta singing.

 
High among the lonely hills,
While I lay beside my sheep,
Rest came down and filled my soul,
From the everlasting deep.
 
 
Changeless march the stars above,
Changeless morn succeeds to even;
Still the everlasting hills,
Changeless watch the changeless heaven.
 
 
See the rivers, how they run,
Changeless toward the changeless sea;
All around is forethought sure,
Fixed will and stern decree.
 
 
Can the sailor move the main?
Will the potter heed the clay?
Mortal! where the spirit drives,
Thither must the wheels obey.
 
 
Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive:
Where thy path is, thou shall go.
He who made the streams of time
Wafts thee down to weal or woe.
 
 
Eliz.  That’s a sweet song, and yet it does not chime
With my heart’s inner voice.  Where had you it, Guta?
 

Guta.  From a nun who was a shepherdess in her youth—sadly plagued she was by a cruel stepmother, till she fled to a convent and found rest to her soul.

Fool.  No doubt; nothing so pleasant as giving up one’s will in one’s own way.  But she might have learnt all that without taking cold on the hill-tops.

 
Eliz.  Where then, Fool?
 

Fool.  At any market-cross where two or three rogues are together, who have neither grace to mend, nor courage to say ‘I did it.’  Now you shall see the shepherdess’ baby dressed in my cap and bells.  [Sings.]

 
When I was a greenhorn and young,
And wanted to be and to do,
I puzzled my brains about choosing my line,
Till I found out the way that things go.
 
 
The same piece of clay makes a tile,
A pitcher, a taw, or a brick:
Dan Horace knew life; you may cut out a saint,
Or a bench, from the self-same stick.
 
 
The urchin who squalls in a gaol,
By circumstance turns out a rogue;
While the castle-bred brat is a senator born,
Or a saint, if religion’s in vogue.
 
 
We fall on our legs in this world,
Blind kittens, tossed in neck and heels:
’Tis Dame Circumstance licks Nature’s cubs into shape,
She’s the mill-head, if we are the wheels.
 
 
Then why puzzle and fret, plot and dream?
He that’s wise will just follow his nose;
Contentedly fish, while he swims with the stream;
’Tis no business of his where it goes.
 
 
Eliz.  Far too well sung for such a saucy song.
So go.
 

Fool.  Ay, I’ll go.  Whip the dog out of church, and then rate him for being no Christian.  [Exit Fool.]

 
Eliz.  Guta, there is sense in that knave’s ribaldry:
We must not thus baptize our idleness,
And call it resignation: Which is love?
To do God’s will, or merely suffer it?
I do not love that contemplative life:
No!  I must headlong into seas of toil,
Leap forth from self, and spend my soul on others.
Oh! contemplation palls upon the spirit,
Like the chill silence of an autumn sun:
While action, like the roaring south-west wind,
Sweeps laden with elixirs, with rich draughts
Quickening the wombed earth.
 
 
Guta.  And yet what bliss,
When dying in the darkness of God’s light,
The soul can pierce these blinding webs of nature,
And float up to The Nothing, which is all things—
The ground of being, where self-forgetful silence
Is emptiness,—emptiness fulness,—fulness God,—
Till we touch Him, and like a snow-flake, melt
Upon His light-sphere’s keen circumference!
 
 
Eliz.  Hast thou felt this?
 
 
Guta.  In part.
 
 
Eliz.  Oh, happy Guta!
Mine eyes are dim—and what if I mistook
For God’s own self, the phantoms of my brain?
And who am I, that my own will’s intent
Should put me face to face with the living God?
I, thus thrust down from the still lakes of thought
Upon a boiling crater-field of labour.
No!  He must come to me, not I to Him;
If I see God, beloved, I must see Him
In mine own self:—
 
 
Guta.  Thyself?
 
 
Eliz.  Why start, my sister?
God is revealed in the crucified:
The crucified must be revealed in me:—
I must put on His righteousness; show forth
His sorrow’s glory; hunger, weep with Him;
Writhe with His stripes, and let this aching flesh
Sink through His fiery baptism into death,
That I may rise with Him, and in His likeness
May ceaseless heal the sick, and soothe the sad,
And give away like Him this flesh and blood
To feed His lambs—ay—we must die with Him
To sense—and love—
 
 
Guta.  To love?  What then becomes
Of marriage vows?
 
 
Eliz.  I know it—so speak not of them.
Oh! that’s the flow, the chasm in all my longings,
Which I have spanned with cobweb arguments,
Yet yawns before me still, where’er I turn,
To bar me from perfection; had I given
My virgin all to Christ!  I was not worthy!
I could not stand alone!
 
 
Guta.  Here comes your husband.
 
 
Eliz.  He comes! my sun! and every thrilling vein
Proclaims my weakness.
 

[Lewis enters.]

 
Lewis.  Good news, my Princess; in the street below
Conrad, the man of God from Marpurg, stands
And from a bourne-stone to the simple folk
Does thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance,
And dread of all foul heresies; his eyes
On heaven still set, save when with searching frown
He lours upon the crowd, who round him cower
Like quails beneath the hawk, and gape, and tremble,
Now raised to heaven, now down again to hell.
I stood beside and heard; like any doe’s
My heart did rise and fall.
 
 
Eliz.  Oh, let us hear him!
We too need warning; shame, if we let pass,
Unentertained, God’s angels on their way.
Send for him, brother.
 
 
Lewis.  Let a knight go down
And say to the holy man, the Landgrave Lewis
With humble greetings prays his blessedness
To make these secular walls the spirit’s temple
At least to-night.
 
 
Eliz.  Now go, my ladies, both—
Prepare fit lodgings,—let your courtesies
Retain in our poor courts the man of God.
 

[Exeunt.  Lewis and Elizabeth are left alone.]

 
Now hear me, best beloved:—I have marked this man:
And that which hath scared others, draws me towards him:
He has the graces which I want; his sternness
I envy for its strength; his fiery boldness
I call the earnestness which dares not trifle
With life’s huge stake; his coldness but the calm
Of one who long hath found, and keeps unwavering,
Clear purpose still; he hath the gift which speaks
The deepest things most simply; in his eye
I dare be happy—weak I dare not be.
With such a guide,—to save this little heart—
The burden of self-rule—Oh—half my work
Were eased, and I could live for thee and thine,
And take no thought of self.  Oh, be not jealous,
Mine own, mine idol!  For thy sake I ask it—
I would but be a mate and help more meet
For all thy knightly virtues.
 
 
Lewis.  ’Tis too true!
I have felt it long; we stand, two weakling children,
Under too huge a burden, while temptations
Like adders swarm up round: I must be led—
But thou alone shall lead me.
 
 
Eliz.  I? beloved!
This load more?  Strengthen, Lord, the feeble knees!
 
 
Lewis.  Yes! thou, my queen, who making thyself once mine,
Hast made me sevenfold thine; I own thee guide
Of my devotions, mine ambition’s lodestar,
The Saint whose shrine I serve with lance and lute;
If thou wilt have a ruler, let him be,
Through thee, the ruler of thy slave.  [Kneels to her.]
 
 
Eliz.  Oh, kneel not—
But grant my prayer—If we shall find this man,
As well I know him, worthy, let him be
Director of my conscience and my actions
With all but thee—Within love’s inner shrine
We shall be still alone—But joy! here comes
Our embassy, successful.
 

[Enter Conrad, with Count Walter, Monks, Ladies, etc.]

 
Conrad.  Peace to this house.
 
 
Eliz.  Hail to your holiness.
 
 
Lewis.  The odour of your sanctity and might,
With balmy steam and gales of Paradise,
Forestalls you hither.
 
 
Eliz.  Bless us doubly, master,
With holy doctrine, and with holy prayers.
 
 
Con.  Children, I am the servant of Christ’s servants—
And needs must yield to those who may command
By right of creed; I do accept your bounty—
Not for myself, but for that priceless name,
Whose dread authority and due commission,
Attested by the seal of His vicegerent,
I bear unworthy here; through my vile lips
Christ and His vicar thank you; on myself—
And these, my brethren, Christ’s adopted poor—
A menial’s crust, and some waste nook, or dog-hutch,
Wherein the worthless flesh may nightly hide,
Are best bestowed.
 
 
Eliz.  You shall be where you will—
Do what you will; unquestioned, unobserved,
Enjoy, refrain; silence and solitude,
The better part which such like spirits choose,
We will provide; only be you our master,
And we your servants, for a few short days:
Oh, blessed days!
 
 
Con.  Ah, be not hasty, madam;
Think whom you welcome; one who has no skill
To wink and speak smooth things; whom fear of God
Constrains to daily wrath; who brings, alas!
A sword, not peace: within whose bones the word
Burns like a pent-up fire, and makes him bold
If aught in you or yours shall seem amiss,
To cry aloud and spare not; let me go—
To pray for you—as I have done long time,
Is sweeter than to chide you.
 
 
Eliz.  Then your prayers
Shall drive home your rebukes; for both we need you—
Our snares are many, and our sins are more.
So say not nay—I’ll speak with you apart.
 

[Elizabeth and Conrad retire.]

 
Lewis [aside].  Well, Walter mine, how like you the good legate?
 
 
Wal.  Walter has seen nought of him but his eye;
And that don’t please him.
 
 
Lewis.  How so, sir! that face
Is pure and meek—a calm and thoughtful eye.
 

Wal.  A shallow, stony, steadfast eye; that looks at neither man nor beast in the face, but at something invisible a yard before him, through you and past you, at a fascination, a ghost of fixed purposes that haunts him, from which neither reason nor pity will turn him.  I have seen such an eye in men possessed—with devils, or with self: sleek, passionless men, who are too refined to be manly, and measure their grace by their effeminacy; crooked vermin, who swarm up in pious times, being drowned out of their earthly haunts by the spring-tide of religion; and so making a gain of godliness, swim upon the first of the flood, till it cast them ashore on the firm beach of wealth and station.  I always mistrust those wall-eyed saints.

 
Lewis.  Beware, Sir Count; your keen and worldly wit
Is good for worldly uses, not to tilt
Withal at holy men and holy things.
He pleases well the spiritual sense
Of my most peerless lady, whose discernment
Is still the touchstone of my grosser fancy:
He is her friend, and mine: and you must love him
Even for our sakes alone, [to a bystander]  A word with you, sir.
 

[In the meantime Elizabeth and Conrad are talking together.]

 
Eliz.  I would be taught—
 
 
Con.  It seems you claim some knowledge,
By choosing thus your teacher.
 
 
Eliz.  I would know more—
 
 
Con.  Go then to the schools—and be no wiser, madam;
And let God’s charge here run to waste, to seek
The bitter fruit of knowledge—hunt the rainbow
O’er hill and dale, while wisdom rusts at home.
 
 
Eliz.  I would be holy, master—
 
 
Con.  Be so, then.
God’s will stands fair: ’tis thine which fails, if any.
 
 
Eliz.  I would know how to rule—
 
 
Con.  Then must thou learn
The needs of subjects, and be ruled thyself.
Sink, if thou longest to rise; become most small—
The strength which comes by weakness makes thee great.
 
 
Eliz.  I will.
 
 
Lewis.  What, still at lessons?  Come, my fairest sister,
Usher the holy man unto his lodgings.  [Exeunt.]
 

Wal [alone].  So, so, the birds are limed:—Heaven grant that we do not soon see them stowed in separate cages.  Well, here my prophesying ends.  I shall go to my lands, and see how much the gentlemen my neighbours have stolen off them the last week,—Priests?  Frogs in the king’s bedchamber!  What says the song?

 
I once had a hound, a right good hound,
A hound both fleet and strong:
He ate at my board, and he slept by my bed,
And ran with me all the day long.
But my wife took a priest, a shaveling priest,
And ‘such friendships are carnal,’ quoth he.
So my wife and her priest they drugged the poor beast,
And the rat’s bane is waiting for me.