Con.  Thou speakest well—­
The knave who serves unto another’s needs
Knows himself abler than the man who needs him;
And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping
Implies a height to stoop from.

Eliz.  Could I see
My Saviour in His poor!

Con.  Thou shall hereafter: 
But now to wash Christ’s feet were dangerous honour
For weakling grace; would you be humble, daughter,
You must look up, not down, and see yourself
A paltry atom, sap-transmitting vein
Of Christ’s vast vine; the pettiest joint and member
Of His great body; own no strength, no will,
Save that which from the ruling head’s command
Through me, as nerve, derives; let thyself die—­
And dying, rise again to fuller life. 
To be a whole is to be small and weak—­
To be a part is to be great and mighty
In the one spirit of the mighty whole—­
The spirit of the martyrs and the saints—­
The spirit of the queen, on whose towered neck
We hang, blest ringlets!

Eliz.  Why! thine eyes flash fire!

Con.  But hush! such words are not for courts and halls—­
Alone with God and me, thou shalt hear more.

[Exit Conrad.]

Eliz.  As when rich chanting ceases suddenly—­
And the rapt sense collapses!—­Oh that Lewis
Could feed my soul thus!  But to work—­to work—­
What wilt thou, little maid?  Ah, I forgot thee—­
Thy mother lies in childbed—­Say, in time
I’ll bring the baby to the font myself. 
It knits them unto me, and me to them,
That bond of sponsorship—­How now, good dame—­
Whence then so sad?

Woman.  An’t please your nobleness,
My neighbour Gretl is with her husband laid
In burning fever.

Eliz.  I will come to them.

Woman.  Alack, the place is foul for such as you;
And fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers;
If you could send—­

Eliz.  What? where I am afraid
To go myself, send others?  That’s strange doctrine. 
I’ll be with you anon. [Goes up into the Hall.]

[Isentrudis enters with a basket.]

Isen.  Why, here’s a weight—­these cordials now, and simples,
Want a stout page to bear them:  yet her fancy
Is still to go alone, to help herself.—­
Where will ’t all end?  In madness, or the grave? 
No limbs can stand these drudgeries:  no spirit
The fretting harrow which this ruffian priest
Calls education—­
Ah! here comes our Count.

[Count Walter enters as from a journey.]

Too late, sir, and too seldom—­Where have you been
These four months past, while we are sold for bond-slaves
Unto a peevish friar?

Wal.  Why, my fair rosebud—­
A trifle overblown, but not less sweet—­
I have been pining for you, till my hair
Is as gray as any badger’s.

Isen.  I’ll not jest.

Wal.  What? has my wall-eyed Saint shown you his temper?