Abbot [aside]. Ut vinum optimum amati meiDulciter descendens!

3 Count. Think not we mean to praise or disapprove—The acts of saintly souls must only pleadIn foro conscientiæ: grosser minds,Whose humbler aim is but the public weal,Know of no mesh which holds them: yet, great Prince,Some dare not see their sovereign’s strength postponedTo private grace, and sigh, that generous hearts,And ladies’ tenderness, too oft forgettingThat wisdom is the highest charity,Will interfere, in pardonable haste,With heaven’s stern providence.

Lewis. We see your drift.Go, sirrah [to a Page]; pray the Princess to illumineOur conclave with her beauties. ’Tis our mannerTo hear no cause, of gentle or of simple,Unless the accused and the accuser bothMeet face to face.

3d Count. Excuse, high-mightiness,—We bring no accusation; facts, your Highness,Wait for your sentence, not our præjudicium.

Lewis. Give us the facts, then, Sir; in the lady’s presence,Her nearness to ourselves—perchance her reasons—May make them somewhat dazzling.

Abbot. Nay, my Lord;I, as a Churchman, though with these your noblesBoth in commission and opinion one,Am yet most loth, my Lord, to set my sealTo aught which this harsh world might call complaintAgainst a princely saint—a chosen vessel—An argosy celestial—in whom errorIs but the young luxuriance of her grace.The Count of Varila, as bound to neither,For both shall speak, and all which late has passedUpon the matter of this famine open.

C. Wal. Why, if I must speak out—then I’ll confessTo have stood by, and seen the LandgravineDo most strange deeds; and in her generationShow no more wit than other babes of light.First, she has given away, to starving rascals,The stores of grain she might have sold, good lack!For any price she asked; has pawned your jewels,And mortgaged sundry farms, and all for food.Has sunk vast sums in fever-hospitals,For rogues whom famine sickened—almshousesFor sluts whose husbands died—schools for their brats.Most sad vagaries! but there’s worse to come.The dulness of the Court has ruined trade:The jewellers and clothiers don’t come near us;The sempstresses, my lord, and pastrycooksHave quite forgot their craft; she has turned all headsAnd made the ladies starve, and wear old clothes,And run about with her to nurse the sick,Instead of putting gold in circulationBy balls, sham-fights, and dinners; ’tis most sad, sir,But she has swept your treasury out as clean—As was the widow’s cruse, who fed Elijah.

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