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. 
God 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 sex—­

Bishop.  Ahem!  As a spectator.

Con.  Philosophice—­
Just so—­You know their rage for shaven crowns—­
How they’ll deny their God—­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.