ash-staves on,
And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets.
What's Lewis doing?

Isen. Oh--befooled,--
Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot
Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel
Sticks at his miry heels.

Wal. The boy's no fool,--
As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given
To hunt the nearest butterfly, and light
The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it
The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or--

Isen. And quickly, for there's treason in the wind.
They'll keep her dower, and send her home with shame
Before the year's out.

Wal. Humph! Some are rogues enough for't.
As it falls out, I ride with him to-day.

Isen. Upon what business?

Wal. Some shaveling has been telling him that there are heretics on
his land: Stadings, worshippers of black cats, baby-eaters, and
such like. He consulted me; I told him it would be time enough to
see to the heretics when all the good Christians had been well
looked after. I suppose the novelty of the thing smit him, for now
nothing will serve but I must ride with him round half a dozen
hamlets, where, with God's help, I will show him a mansty or two,
that shall astonish his delicate chivalry.

Isen. Oh, here's your time! Speak to him, noble Walter.
Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace;
Prick his dull heart with shame at his own coldness.
Oh right us, Count.

Wal. I will, I will: go in
And dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately.]

SCENE II

A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter riding.

Lewis. So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads--
These village greens, and forest-fretted hills,
With dizzy castles crowned. Mine! Why that word
Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt.
What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride,
Can these things fatten? Mass! I had forgot:
I have a right to bark at trespassers.
Rare privilege! While every fowl and bush,
According to its destiny and nature
(Which were they truly mine, my power could alter),
Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me.
Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks
The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat,
If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows
The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds
Into an age of sleep, 'twere something: and those men
O'er whom that one word 'ownership' uprears me--
If I could make them lift a finger up
But of their own free will, I'd own my seizin.
But now--when if I sold them, life and limb,