Eliz. But, Lewis, nurse?

Isen. He, child? he is thy knight;Espoused from childhood: thou hast a claim upon him.One that thou’lt need, alas!—though, I remember—’Tis fifteen years agone—when in one cradleWe laid two fair babes for a marriage token;And when your lips met, then you smiled, and twinedYour little limbs together.—Pray the SaintsThat token stand!—He calls thee love and sister,And brings thee gew-gaws from the wars: that’s much!At least he’s thine if thou love him.

Eliz. If I love him?What is this love? Why, is he not my brotherAnd I his sister? Till these weary wars,The one of us without the other neverDid weep or laugh: what is’t should change us now?You shake your head and smile.

Isen. Go to; the chafeComes not by wearing chains, but feeling them.

Eliz. Alas! here comes a knight across the court;Oh, hide me, nurse! What’s here? this door is fast.

Isen. Nay, ’tis a friend: he brought my princess hither,Walter of Varila; I feared him once—He used to mock our state, and say, good wineShould want no bush, and that the cage was gay,But that the bird must sing before he praised it.Yet he’s a kind heart, while his bitter tongueAwes these court popinjays at times to manners.He will smile sadly too, when he meets my maiden;And once he said, he was your liegeman sworn,Since my lost mistress, weeping, to his chargeTrusted the babe she saw no more.—God help us!

Eliz. How did my mother die, nurse?

Isen. She died, my child.

Eliz. But how? Why turn away?Too long I’ve guessed at some dread mysteryI may not hear: and in my restless dreams,Night after night, sweeps by a frantic routOf grinning fiends, fierce horses, bodiless hands,Which clutch at one to whom my spirit yearnsAs to a mother. There’s some fearful tieBetween me and that spirit-world, which GodBrands with his terrors on my troubled mind.Speak! tell me, nurse! is she in heaven or hell?

Isen. God knows, my child: there are masses for her soulEach day in every Zingar minster sung.

Eliz. But was she holy?—Died she in the Lord?Isen [weeps]. O God! my child! And if I told thee all,How couldst thou mend it?

Eliz. Mend it? O my Saviour!I’d die a saint!Win heaven for her by prayers, and build great minsters,Chantries, and hospitals for her; wipe outBy mighty deeds our race’s guilt 

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