Wal. Too late, my royal eyas?You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze ere long—She has no mind to slip to cover.

Lewis. Come—We’ll back—we’ll back; and you shall bear the message;I am ashamed to speak. Tell her I love her—That I should need to tell her! Say, my coynessWas bred of worship, not of coldness.

Wal. Then the serfsMust wait?

Lewis. Why not? This day to them, too, blessing brings,Which clears from envious webs their guardian angel’s wings. [Exeunt.]

SCENE III

A Chamber in the Castle. Sophia, Elizabeth, Agnes, Isentrude, etc., re-entering.

Soph. What! you will not? You hear, Dame Isentrude,She will not wear her coronet in the church,Because, forsooth, the crucifix withinIs crowned with thorns. You hear her.

Eliz. Noble mother!How could I flaunt this bauble in His faceWho hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me—I felt it shamelessness to go so gay.

Soph. Felt? What then? Every foolish wench has feelingsIn these religious days, and thinks it carnalTo wash her dishes, and obey her parents—No wonder they ape you, if you ape them—Go to! I hate this humble-minded pride,Self-willed submission—to your own pert fancies;This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits,Who make their oddities their test for grace,And peer about to catch the general eye;Ah! I have watched you throw your playmates downTo have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon.Here’s sanctity—to shame your cousin and me—Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;—If God has made you noble, use your rank,If you but know how. You Landgravine? You matedWith gentle Lewis? Why, belike you’ll cowl him,As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse;No—one Hedwiga at a time’s enough,—My son shall die no monk.

Isen. Beseech you, Madam,—Weep not, my darling.

Soph. Tut—I’ll speak my mind.We’ll have no saints. Thank heaven, my saintlinessNe’er troubled my good man, by day or night.We’ll have no saints, I say; far better for you,And no doubt pleasanter—You know your place—At least you know your place,—to take to cloisters,And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin,With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens,Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge.There’s nothing noble in you, but your blood;And that one almost doubts. Who art thou, child?

Isen. The daughter, please your highness,Of Andreas, 

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