en they see you landlords
sitting idle above them, in a fool's paradise of luxury and riot,
never looking down but to squeeze from them an extra drop of honey--
like sheep-boys stuffing themselves with blackberries while the
sheep are licking up flukes in every ditch? And now you wish to
leave the poor man in the slough, whither your neglect and your
example have betrayed him, and made his too apt scholarship the
excuse for your own remorseless greed! As a Christian, I am ashamed
of you all; as a Churchman, doubly ashamed of those prelates, hired
stalking-horses of the rich, who would fain gloss over their own
sloth and cowardice with the wisdom which cometh not from above, but
is earthly, sensual, devilish; aping the artless cant of an
aristocracy who made them--use them--and despise them. That was his
sermon.

Abbot. Paul and Barnabas! What an outpouring of the spirit!--Were
not his hoodship the Pope's legate, now--accidents might happen to
him, going home at night; eh, Sir Hugo?

C. Hugo. If he would but come my way!
For 'the mule it was slow, and the lane it was dark,
When out of the copse leapt a gallant young spark.
Says, 'Tis not for nought you've been begging all day:
So remember your toll, since you travel our way.'

Abbot. Hush! Here comes the Landgrave.

[Lewis enters.]

Lewis. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, Count Walter?
Your blessing, Father Abbot: what deep matters
Have called our worships to this conference?

C. Hugo [aside]. Up, Count; you are spokesman.

3d Count. Exalted Prince,
Whose peerless knighthood, like the remeant sun,
After too long a night, regilds our clay,
Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams
Of your celestial lady's matron graces--

Abbot [aside]. Ut vinum optimum amati mei
Dulciter descendens!

3 Count. Think not we mean to praise or disapprove--
The acts of saintly souls must only plead
In foro conscientiae: grosser minds,
Whose humbler aim is but the public weal,
Know of no mesh which holds them: yet, great Prince,
Some dare not see their sovereign's strength postponed
To private grace, and sigh, that generous hearts,
And ladies' tenderness, too oft forgetting
That wisdom is the highest charity,
Will interfere, in pardonable haste,
With heaven's stern providence.

Lewis. We see your drift.
Go, sirrah [to a Page]; pray the Princess to illumine
Our conclave with her beauties. 'Tis our manner
To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple,
Unless