I passed that canting baby on the stairs; Would Heaven that she had tripped and broke her goose neck, And left us heirs de facto. So, farewell. Wal. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough To spoil a wagon-load of ash-staves on, And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets. Isen. Oh-Befooled, Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel Sticks at his miry heels. Wal. The boy's no fool,— As good a heart as her's, but somewhat given The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear on 't. [Exit. Isen. And quickly, for there 's treason in the wind. They'll keep her dower, and send her home with shame Before the year's out. Wal. Humph! Some are rogues enough for 't. As it falls out, I ride with him to-day. Isen. Upon what business? Wal. Some shaveling has been telling him that there are heretics on his land; stadings, worshippers of black cats, baby-eaters, and such like. He consulted me; I told him it would be time enough to see to the heretics, when all the good Christians had been well looked after. I suppose the novelty of the thing smit him, for now nothing will serve but I must ride with him round half a dozen hamlets, where, with God's help, I will show him a manstye or two, that shall astonish his delicate chivalry. Isen. O, here's your time! Speak to him, noble Walter. Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace; Prick his dull heart with shame at his own coldness. Wal. I will, I will go in And dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately. SCENE II. A Landscape in Thuringia. LEWIS and WALTER riding. Lew. So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads. These village-greens, and forest-fretted hills, With dizzy castles crowned. Mine? Why that word Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt. What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride Can these things fatten? Mass! I had forgot: Rare privilege! While every fowl and bush, (Which were they truly mine, my power could alter) Into an age of sleep, 'twere something; and those men O'er whom that one word "ownership" uprears me— If I could make them lift a finger up But of their own free will, I'd own my seisin. But now-when if I sold them, life and limb, Than when men called her mine.-Possession 's naught; And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers, ale Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel.-Are they naught? Possession means to sit astride of the world, Instead of having it astride of you; Is that naught? 'Tis the easiest trade of all too; For he that's fit for nothing else, is fit To own good land, and on the slowest dolt His state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best. Lew. How now? What need then of long discipline Not to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul; To courtesies and high self-sacrifice, To order and obedience, and the grace Which makes commands, requests, and service, favour? And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven? Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox, Wal. Why? Because I have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler. You may begin to think of interfering. ; Lew. Alas! while each day blackens with fresh clouds, Complaints of ague, fever, crumbling huts, Of land thrown out to the forest, game and keepers, Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike; Need, greed, stupidity: To clear such ruin Wal. Oh! plenty, Sir; Which no man yet has done or e'er will do. It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured; Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves. Lew. I'll crowd my court and dais with men of God, As doth my peerless namesake, King of France. Wal. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two coun sellors Worth any drove of priests. Lew. And who are they? Wal. God and his lady-love. (Aside.) He'll open at that Lew. I could be that man's squire. Wal. (Aside.) Again run riot Now for another cast; (Aloud.) If you'd sleep sound, Sir, You'll let priests pray for you, but school you never. Lew. Mass! who more fitted? Wal. None, if you could trust them; But they are the people's creatures; poor men give them Their power at the Church, and take it back at the ale house: Then what's the friar to the starving peasant? Just what the abbot is to the greedy noble— A scarecrow to lear wolves. Go ask the churchplate, Safe in knight's cellars, how these priests are feared. Bruised reeds when you most need them.-No, my Lord; Copy them, trust them never. Lew. Copy? wherein? In letting every man Do what he likes, and only seeing he does it As you do your work-well. That's the Church secret For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer; |