The Saints Tragedy | Page 9

and then, when they are well infected, well perfumed with the
wind of our vices, dropping them off, as tadpoles do their tails, joint by
joint into the mud! to strain at such gnats as an ill-mouthed colt or a
riotous puppy, and swallow that camel of camels, a page!
Page. Do you call me a camel, Sir?
Wal. What's your business?
Page. My errand is to the Princess here.
Eliz. To me?
Page. Yes; the Landgravine expects you at high mass; so go in, and
mind you clean yourself; for every one is not as fond as you of beggars'
brats, and what their clothes leave behind them.
Isen [strikes him]. Monkey! To whom are you speaking?
Eliz. Oh, peace, peace, peace! I'll go with him.
Page. Then be quick, my music-master's waiting. Corpo di Bacco! as if
our elders did not teach us to whom we ought to be rude! [Ex. Eliz. and
Page.]
Isen. See here, Sir Saxon, how this pearl of price Is faring in your hands!
The peerless image, To whom this court is but the tawdry frame,-- The
speck of light amid its murky baseness,-- The salt which keeps it all
from rotting,--cast To be the common fool,--the laughing stock For
every beardless knave to whet his wit on! Tar-blooded
Germans!--Here's another of them.
[A young Knight enters.]
Knight. Heigh! Count! What? learning to sing psalms? They are

waiting For you in the manage-school, to give your judgment On that
new Norman mare.
Wal. Tell them I'm busy.
Knight. Busy? St. Martin! Knitting stockings, eh? To clothe the poor
withal? Is that your business? I passed that canting baby on the stairs;
Would heaven that she had tripped, and broke her goose-neck, And left
us heirs de facto. So, farewell. [Exit.]
Wal. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough To spoil a waggon-load of
ash-staves on, And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets.
What's Lewis doing?
Isen. Oh--befooled,-- Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot
Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel Sticks at his miry heels.
Wal. The boy's no fool,-- As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given
To hunt the nearest butterfly, and light The fire of fancy without
hanging o'er it The 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 shame Before 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 in And 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 word Is 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 ranks The world-old
oaks still dwindle and retreat, If I could stay their poisoned frown,
which cows The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds Into an age
of sleep, 'twere something: and those men O'er whom that one word
'ownership' uprears me-- If I could make them lift a finger up But 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 less Than when
men called her mine.--Possession's naught; A parchment ghost; a word
I am ashamed To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits, And bees
who drain unasked the free-born flowers, Should mock, and cry, 'Vain
man, not thine, but ours.'
Wal. Possession's naught? Possession's beef and ale-- Soft bed, fair
wife, gay horse, good steel.--Are they