Eliz.  Oh! this grief is light
And floats a-top—­well, well; it hides a while
That gulf too black for speech—­My husband’s dead! 
I dare not think on’t. 
A small bird dead in the snow!  Alas! poor minstrel! 
A week ago, before this very window,
He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight;
And housewives blest him for a merry singer: 
And now he freezes at their doors, like me. 
Poor foolish brother! didst thou look for payment?

Guta.  But thou hast light in darkness:  he has none—­
The bird’s the sport of time, while our life’s floor
Is laid upon eternity; no crack in it
But shows the underlying heaven.

Eliz.  Art sure? 
Does this look like it, girl?  No—­I’ll trust yet—­
Some have gone mad for less; but why should I? 
Who live in time, and not eternity. 
’Twill end, girl, end; no cloud across the sun
But passes at the last, and gives us back
The face of God once more.

Guta.  See here they come,
Dame Isentrudis and your children, all
Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling snow-drifts.

Eliz.  O Lord, my Lord!  I thank thee! 
Loving and merciful, and tender-hearted,
And even in fiercest wrath remembering mercy. 
Lo! here’s my ancient foe.  What want you, Sir?

[Hugo enters.]

Hugo.  Want?  Faith, ’tis you who want, not I, my Lady—­
I hear, you are gone a begging through the town;
So, for your husband’s sake, I’ll take you in;
For though I can’t forget your scurvy usage,
He was a very honest sort of fellow,
Though mad as a March hare; so come you in.

Eliz.  But know you, Sir, that all my husband’s vassals
Are bidden bar their doors to me?

Hugo.  I know it: 
And therefore come you in; my house is mine: 
No upstarts shall lay down the law to me;
Not they, mass:  but mind you, no canting here—­
No psalm-singing; all candles out at eight: 
Beggars must not be choosers.  Come along!

Eliz.  I thank you, Sir; and for my children’s sake
I do accept your bounty. [aside] Down, proud heart—­
Bend lower—­lower ever:  thus God deals with thee. 
Go, Guta, send the children after me. [Exeunt severally.]

[Two Peasants enter.]

1st Peas.  Here’s Father January taken a lease of March month, and put in Jack Frost for bailiff.  What be I to do for spring-feed if the weather holds,—­and my ryelands as bare as the back of my hand?

2d Peas.  That’s your luck.  Freeze on, say I, and may Mary Mother send us snow a yard deep.  I have ten ton of hay yet to sell—­ten ton, man—­there’s my luck:  every man for himself, and—­Why here comes that handsome canting girl, used to be about the Princess.

[Guta enters.]

Guta.  Well met, fair sirs!  I know you kind and loyal,
And bound by many a favour to my mistress: 
Say, will you bear this letter for her sake
Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady
Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen?