LUCIFER, as a Friar in the procession. 
Here am I, too, in the pious band,
In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! 
The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned
As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand,
The Holy Satan, who made the wives
Of the bishops lead such shameful lives,
All day long I beat my breast,
And chant with a most particular zest
The Latin hymns, which I understand
Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 
And at night such lodging in barns and sheds,
Such a hurly-burly in country inns,
Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads,
Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! 
Of all the contrivances of the time
For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime,
There is none so pleasing to me and mine
As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!

PRINCE HENRY. 
If from the outward man we judge the inner,
And cleanliness is godliness, I fear
A hopeless reprobate, a hardened Sinner,
Must be that Carmelite now passing near.

LUCIFER. 
There is my German Prince again,
Thus far on his journey to Salern,
And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain
Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain;
But it’s a long road that has no turn! 
Let them quietly hold their way,
I have also a part in the play. 
But first I must act to my heart’s content
This mummery and this merriment,
And drive this motley flock of sheep
Into the fold, where drink and sleep
The jolly old friars of Benevent. 
Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh
To see these beggars hobble along,
Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff,
Chanting their wonderful puff and paff,
And, to make up for not understanding the song,
Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! 
Were it not for my magic garters and staff,
And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff,
And the mischief I make in the idle throng,
I should not continue the business long.

PILGRIMS, chanting. 
  In hac urbe, lux solennis,
  Ver aeternum, pax perennis;
  In hac odor implens caelos,
  In hac semper festum melos!

PRINCE HENRY. 
Do you observe that monk among the train,
Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass,
As a cathedral spout pours out the rain,
And this way turns his rubicund, round face?

ELSIE. 
It is the same who, on the Strasburg square,
Preached to the people in the open air.

PRINCE HENRY. 
And he has crossed o’er mountain, field, and fell,
On that good steed, that seems to bear him well,
The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray,
His own stout legs!  He, too, was in the play,
Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. 
Good morrow, Friar!

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
             Good morrow, noble Sir!

PRINCE HENRY. 
I speak in German, for, unless I err,
You are a German.

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
                I cannot gainsay you. 
But by what instinct, or what secret sign,
Meeting me here, do you straightway divine
That northward of the Alps my country lies?