Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady

Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen.

2d Peas. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among cabbage. She told me once, God's curse would overtake me, For grinding of the poor: her turn's come now.

Guta. Will you, then, help her? She will pay you richly.

1st Peas. Ay? How dame? How? Where will the money come from?

When all your stacks were fired, she lent you gold.

1st Peas. Well-I'll be generous: as the times are

hard,

Say, if I take your letter, will you promise

To marry me yourself?

Guta.

Ay, marry you,

Or any thing, if you'll but go to-day :

At

once, mind. 1st Peas.

[Giving him the Letter.

Ay, I'll go. Now, you'll remember?

Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzengen. God and his saints deal with you, as you deal With us this day.

[Exit.

2d Peas. What! art thou fallen in love promiscuously? 1st Peas. Why, see, now, man; she has her mistress'

ear;

And if I marry her, no doubt they'll make me

Bailiff, or land-steward; and there's noble pickings
In that same line.

2d Peas.

Thou hast bought a pig in a poke:

Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain.

1st Peas. Dost think? Well I'll not fret myself

about it.

See, now, before I start, I must get home

Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze;

And then to get my supper,

and my horse's: And then a man will need to sit awhile,

And take his snack of brandy for digestion;

And then to fettle up my sword and buckler;

And then, bid 'em all good bye: and by that time "Twill be most nightfall-I'll just go to-morrow. Off-here she comes again.

[Exeunt.

[ISENTRUDIS and GUTA enter, with the Children.] Guta. I warned you of it; I knew she would not stay An hour, thus treated like a slave-an idiot.

Isen. Well, 'twas past bearing: so we are thrust forth To starve again: Are all your jewels gone?

Guta. All pawned and eaten—and for her, you know, She never bore the worth of one day's meal About her dress, We can but die-No foe Can ban us from that rest.

Isen. Ay, but these children!-Well-if it must be,
Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand
My wedding-ring; the man who gave it me

Should be in heaven-and there he'll know my heart.
Take it, girl, take it. Where's the princess now?
She stopped before a crucifix to pray;

But why so long?

Guta.

Oh! prayer, to her rapt soul,

Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee,
Who scent-enchanted, on the latest flower,
Heedless of cold, will linger listless on,

And freeze in odorous dreams.

Isen.

Ah! here she comes.

Guta. Dripping from head to foot with wet and

mire!

How's this?

Eliz.

[ELIZABETH entering.]

How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood:

I met a friend just now, who told me truths

Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart

Would God I had known them earlier!-and enforced Her lesson so, as I shall ne'er forget it

In body or in mind.

Isen.

What means all this?

Eliz. You know the stepping-stones across the ford : There as I passed, a certain aged crone,

Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year,

Met me mid-stream-thrust past me stoutly on-
And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire.
There as I lay and weltered-"Take that, madam,
For all your selfish hypocritic pride

Which thought it such a vast humility

To wash us poor folks' feet, and use our bodies
For staves to build withal your Jacob's-ladder.
What! you would mount to heaven upon our backs ?
The ass has thrown his rider?" She crept on-

I washed my garments in the brook hard by—

And came here, all the wiser.

She would have guessed my heart so well? Dull boors

See deeper than we think, and hide within

Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths,

Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose.

They grind among the iron facts of life,

And have no time for self-deception.

Isen.

Come

Put on my cloak-stand here, behind the wall. Oh! is it come to this? She 'll die of cold.

Guta. Ungrateful fiend!

Eliz.

Let be-we must not think on 't.

The scoff was true-I thank her-I thank God—
This too I needed. I had built myself

A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven,
Of men's praise and prayers, and subtle pride
At mine own alms. 'Tis crumbled into dust!

poor

Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh

And here's its strength! I'll walk by faith-by faith!
And rest my weary heart on Christ alone-
On Him, the all-sufficient!

Shame on me! dreaming thus about myself,
While you stand shivering here.

[To her little Son.

Art cold, young knight?

Knights must not cry-Go slide, and warm thyself.

Where shall we lodge to-night?

Isen.

There's no place open,

But that foul tavern, where we lay last night.

Elizabeth's Son, [clinging to her.] Oh, mother, mother! go not to that house

Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and scowled, And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly songs Of you and us. Oh, mother! let us be!

Eliz. Hark! look! His father's voice!—his very

eye

Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down

In luscious rest again!

Isen.

Bethink you, child

Eliz. Oh yes-I'll think—we 'll to our tavern friends; If they be brutes, 'twas my sin left them so.

Guta. 'Tis but for a night or two: three days will

Guta. [Aside.] Hush, hush! you'll fret her, if you

talk of vengeance.

Isen. Come to our shelter.

Children.

Behind these walls.

Oh stay here, stay here!

Eliz. Ay-stay awhile in peace. The storms are still.

Beneath her eider robe the patient earth