thine, but ours.’

Wal. Possession’s naught? Possession’s beef and 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 fitTo own good land, and on the slowest doltHis state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best.

Lewis. 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 graceWhich makes commands, requests, and service, favour?To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turnedTo that Valhalla, where the virgin saintsAnd stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven?Why these, if I but need, like stalled oxTo chew the grass cut for me?

Wal. Why? BecauseI have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler.All callings want their proper ’prentice timeBut this of ruling; it comes by mother-wit;And if the wit be not exceeding great,’Tis best the wit be most exceeding small;And he that holds the reins should let the horseRange on, feed where he will, live and let live.Custom and selfishness will keep all steadyFor half a life.—Six months before you dieYou may begin to think of interfering.

Lewis. 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 ruinWould task the rich prime of some noble hero—But can I nothing do?

Wal. Oh! plenty, Sir;Which no man yet has done or e’er will do.It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured;It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly;It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn;It rests with you, whether those toiling peasantsLift to their masters free and loyal eyes,Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves.It rests with you—and will rest.

Lewis. 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 counsellorsWorth any drove of priests.

Lewis. And who are they?

Wal. God and his lady-love, [aside] He’ll open at that—

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