Bishop. Well, well,—but what gross scandal to the family!
Con. The family, my lord, would gain a saint.
Bishop. Ah! monk, that canonisation costs a frightful sum.
Con. These fees, just now, would gladly be remitted.
Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when Rome’s too rich to take!
Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher’s
Were so o’ercursed by Mammon! But you grieve,
I know, to see foul weeds of heresy
Of late o’errun your diocese.
Bishop. Ay, curse them!
I’ve hanged some dozens.
Con. Worthy of yourself!
But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph—
Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze
May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale
Of Holy Church again—
Bishop. To singe their wings?
Con. They’ll not come near enough.
Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert
A churchman’s energies were better spent
In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark—
Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope
To this her huge capacity for sainthood—
Set her, a burning and a shining light
To all your people—Such a sacrifice,
Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood,
Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise
For the next world as for this; will clear your name
From calumnies which argue worldliness;
Buy of itself the joys of paradise;
And clench your lordship’s interest with the pontiff.
Bishop. Well, well, we’ll think on’t.
Con. Sir, I doubt you not.
Eliz. Uncle, I am determined.
Bishop. So am I.
You shall to Marpurg with this holy man.
Eliz. Ah, there you speak again like my own
I’ll go—to rest [aside] and die. I only wait
To see the bones of my beloved laid
In some fit resting-place. A messenger
Proclaims them near. O God!
Bishop. We’ll go, my child,
And meeting them with all due honour, show
In our own worship, honourable minds.
A messenger! How far off are they, then?
Serv. Some two days’ journey, sir.
Bishop. Two days’ journey, and nought prepared? Here, chaplain—Brother Hippodamas! Chaplain, I say! [Hippodamas enters.] Call the apparitor—ride off with him, right and left— Don’t wait even to take your hawk—Tell my knights to be with me, with all their men-at-arms, at noon on the second day. Let all be of the best, say—the brightest of arms and the newest of garments. Mass! we must show our smartest before these crusaders—they’ll be full of new fashions, I warrant ’em—the monkeys that have seen the world. And here, boy [to a page], set me a stoup of wine in the oriel-room, and another for this good monk.
Con. Pardon me, blessedness—but holy rule—