, 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.

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 see
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