[The bishop of Bamberg enters. Conrad following.]

Bishop. The Devil plagued St. Antony in the likeness of a lean friar! Between mad monks and mad women, bedlam's broke loose, I think.

Con. When the Spirit first descended on the elect, seculars then, too, said mocking, 'These men are full of new wine.'

Bishop. Seculars, truly! If I had not in my secularity picked up a spice of chivalry to the ladies, I should long ago have turned out you and your regulars, to cant elsewhere. Plague on this gout--I must sit.

Eliz. Let me settle your cushion, uncle.

Bishop. So! girl! I sent for you from Botenstain. I had a mind, now, to have kept you there until your wits returned, and you would say Yes to some young n.o.ble suitor. As if I had not had trouble enough about your dower!--If I had had to fight for it, I should not have minded:--but these palavers and conferences have fretted me into the gout: and now you would throw all away again, tired with your toy, I suppose. What shall I say to the Counts, Varila, and the Cupbearer, and all the n.o.ble knights who will hazard their lands and lives in trying to right you with that traitor? I am ashamed to look them in the face! To give all up to the villain!--To pay him for his treason!

Eliz. Uncle, I give but what to me is worthless. He loves these baubles--let him keep them, then: I have my dower.

Bishop. To squander on nuns and beggars, at this rogue's bidding?

Why not marry some honest man? You may have your choice of kings and princes; and if you have been happy with one gentleman, Ma.s.s!

say I, why can't you be happy with another? What saith the Scripture? 'I will that the younger widows marry, bear children,'-- not run after monks, and what not--What's good for the filly, is good for the mare, say I.

Eliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch-- To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone.

Bishop. Ahem!--a pious notion--in moderation. We must be moderate, my child, moderate: I hate overdoing anything--especially religion.

Con. Madam, between your uncle and myself This question in your absence were best mooted.

[Exit Elizabeth.]

Bishop. How, priest? do you order her about like a servant-maid?

Con. The saints forbid! Now--ere I lose a moment--

[Kneeling.]

[Aside] All things to all men be--and so save some-- [Aloud] Forgive, your grace, forgive me, If mine unmannered speech in aught have clashed With your more tempered and melodious judgment: Your courage will forgive an honest warmth.

G.o.d knows, I serve no private interests.

Bishop. Your order's, hey? to wit?

Con. My lord, my lord, There may be higher aims: but what I said, I said but for our Church, and our cloth's honour.

Ladies' religion, like their love, we know, Requires a gloss of verbal exaltation, Lest the sweet souls should understand themselves; And clergymen must talk up to the mark.

Bishop. We all know, Gospel preached in the mother-tongue Sounds too like common sense.

Con. Or too unlike it: You know the world, your grace; you know the s.e.x--

Bishop. Ahem! As a spectator.

Con. Philosophice-- Just so--You know their rage for shaven crowns-- How they'll deny their G.o.d--but not their priest-- Flirts--scandal-mongers--in default of both come Platonic love--worship of art and genius-- Idols which make them dream of heaven, as girls Dream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on bridecake.

It saves from worse--we are not all Abelards.

Bishop [aside]. Some of us have his tongue, if not his face.

Con. There lies her fancy; do but balk her of it-- She'll bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared.

Head her from that--she'll wed some pink-faced boy-- The more low-bred and penniless, the likelier.

Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool.

Tug at the kite, 'twill only soar the higher: Give it but line, my lord, 'twill drop like slate.

Use but that eagle's glance, whose daring foresight In chapter, camp, and council, wins the wonder Of timid trucklers--Scan results and outcomes-- The scale is heavy in your grace's favour.

Bishop. Bah! priest! What can this Marpurg-madness do for me?

Con. Leave you the tutelage of all her children.

Bishop. Thank you--to play the dry-nurse to three starving brats.

Con. The minor's guardian guards the minor's lands.

Bishop. Unless they are pitched away in building hospitals.

Con. Instead of fattening in your wisdom's keeping.

Bishop. Well, well,--but what gross scandal to the family!

Con. The family, my lord, would gain a saint.

Bishop. Ah! monk, that canonisation costs a frightful sum.

Con. These fees, just now, would gladly be remitted.

Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when Rome's too rich to take!

Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher's see Were so o'ercursed by Mammon! But you grieve, I know, to see foul weeds of heresy Of late o'errun your diocese.

Bishop. Ay, curse them!

I've hanged some dozens.

Con. Worthy of yourself!

But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph-- Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale Of Holy Church again--

Bishop. To singe their wings?

Con. They'll not come near enough. Again--there are Who dare arraign your prowess, and a.s.sert A churchman's energies were better spent In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark-- Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope To this her huge capacity for sainthood-- Set her, a burning and a shining light To all your people--Such a sacrifice, Such loan to G.o.d of your own flesh and blood, Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise For the next world as for this; will clear your name From calumnies which argue worldliness; Buy of itself the joys of paradise; And clench your lordship's interest with the pontiff.

Bishop. Well, well, we'll think on't.

Con. Sir, I doubt you not.

[Re-enter Elizabeth.]

Eliz. Uncle, I am determined.