Judith.  He may torment us if we yield.

Ozias. 
     He may. 
But not to yield is grisly and sure torment.

Judith.  There must be hope, if we could reckon right!

Ozias. 
Well, thou and God have five days more to build
A bridge of hope over our broken world. 
And, for the town even now fearfully aches
In scalding thirst, not five days had I granted,
Had it not been for somewhat I must say
Secretly to thee.

Judith. 
     Secretly?  Then here;
Send off these men to labour at their groans
Elsewhere; for not within my house thou comest;
I’ll have no thoughts against God in my house.

     [OZIAS disperses the citizens.

Ozias. 
Judith, we are two upright minds in this
Herd of grovelling cowardice.  We should,
To spiritual vision which can see
Stature of spirit, seem to stand in our folk
Like two unaltered stanchions in the heap
Of a house pulled down by fire.  I know thy soul
Tempered by trust in God against this ruin;
But not in God, but in mortality
Thy soul stands founded; and death even now
Is digging at thy station in the world;
And as a man with ropes and windlasses
Pulls for new building columns of wreckt halls
Down with a breaking fall, so death has rigged
His skill about us, so he will break us down,
Ruin our height and courage; and as stone,
Carved with the beautiful pride of kings, hath made,
Hammer’d to rubble and ground for mortar, walls
Of farms and byres, our kill’d and broken natures,
With all their beauty of passion, yea, and delight
In God, death will shape and grind up to new
Housing for souls not royal as we are,
New flesh and mind for mean souls and dull hearts: 
For death is only life destroying life
To roof the coming swarms in mortal shelter
Of flesh and mind experienced in joy.

Judith. 
Thy specious prologue means no good, I trow. 
Thou wert to tell me wherefore for five days
We may pretend to be God’s people still;
Why thou didst not make us over to death
Soon as the folk began to wail despair.

Ozias. 
This reasoning will tell thee why.—­No need,
I think, to bring up into speech the years
Since in the barley-field Manasses lay
Shot by the sun.  I tried (nor failed, I think),
To hold thy soul up from its hurt, and be
Somewhat of sight to thee, until thy long
Blind season of disaster should be changed. 
Always I have found friendship in thine eyes;
And pleasant words, and silences more pleasant,
Have made us moments wherein all the world
Left our sequester’d minds; so that I dared
Often believe our friendliness might be
The brink of love.

Judith. 
     Stop! for thou hast enough
Disgraced mine ears.