Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins!
Of all the contrivances of the time

For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime,
There is none so pleasing to me and mine
As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!

PRINCE HENRY.

If from the outward man we judge the inner,
And cleanliness is godliness, I fear

A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner,
Must be that Carmelite now passing near.

LUCIFER.

There is my German Prince again,
Thus far on his journey to Salern,

And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain
Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain;

But it's a long road that has no turn! .
Let them quietly hold their way,

I have also a part in the play.

But first I must act to my heart's content
This mummery and this merriment,

And drive this motley flock of sheep
Into the fold, where drink and sleep
The jolly old friars of Benevent.

Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh
To see these beggars hobble along,
Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff,
Chanting their wonderful piff and paff,

And, to make up for not understanding the

song,

Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong!
Were it not for my magic garters and staff,
And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff,
And the mischief I make in the idle throng,
I should not continue the business long.

PILGRIMS, chaunting.

In hâc urbe, lux solennis,
Ver æternum, pax perennis;
In hâc odor implens cælos,
In hâc semper festum melos!

Do

PRINCE HENRY.

you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring

bass,

As a cathedral spout pours out the rain,
And this way turns his rubicund, round face?

ELSIE.

It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.

PRINCE HENRY.

And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and

fell,

On that good steed, that seems to bear him

well,

The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray,

His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel.

Good morrow, Friar!

FRIAR CUTHBERT.

Good morrow, noble Sir!

PRINCE HENRY.

I speak in German, for, unless I err,

You are a German.

FRIAR CUTHBERT.

I cannot gainsay you.

But by what instinct, or what secret sign, Meeting me here, do you straightway divine That northward of the Alps my country lies?

PRINCE HENRY.

Your accent, like St. Peter's, would betray

you,

Did not your yellow beard and your blue

eyes.

Moreover, we have seen your face before,
And heard you preach at the Cathedral door
On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square.
We were among the crowd that gathered

there,

And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, As if, by leaning o'er so many years

To walk with little children, your own will
Had caught a childish attitude from theirs,
A kind of stooping in its form and gait,
And could no longer stand erect and straight.
Whence come you now?

FRIAR CUTHBERT.

From the old monastery

Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent

Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent,

To see the image of the Virgin Mary,

That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes

speaks,

And lets the piteous tears run down its

cheeks,

To touch the hearts of the impenitent.

PRINCE HENRY.

O, had I faith, as in the days gone by,

That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery!

LUCIFER, at a distance.

Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert!