heart as hers, but somewhat givenTo hunt the nearest butterfly, and lightThe fire of fancy without hanging o’er itThe porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or—

Isen. And quickly, for there’s treason in the wind.They’ll keep her dower, and send her home with shameBefore 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 mansty or two, that shall astonish his delicate chivalry.

Isen. Oh, 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.Oh right us, Count.

Wal. I will, I will: go inAnd dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately.]

SCENE II

A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter riding.

Lewis. So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads—These village greens, and forest-fretted hills,With dizzy castles crowned. Mine! Why that wordIs rich in promise, in the action bankrupt.What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride,Can these things fatten? Mass! I had forgot:I have a right to bark at trespassers.Rare privilege! While every fowl and bush,According to its destiny and nature(Which were they truly mine, my power could alter),Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me.Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranksThe world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat,If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cowsThe pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seedsInto an age of sleep, ’twere something: and those menO’er whom that one word ‘ownership’ uprears me—If I could make them lift a finger upBut of their own free will, I’d own my seizin.But now—when if I sold them, life and limb,There’s not a sow would litter one pig lessThan when men called her mine.—Possession’s naught;A parchment ghost; a word I am ashamedTo claim even here, lest all the forest spirits,And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers,Should mock, and cry, ‘Vain man, not 

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