The Saint's Tragedy. Charles Kingsley

      Min.  How gaily smile the heavens,

      The light winds whisper gay;

      For royal birth and knightly worth

      Are knit to one to-day.

      Fool [drowning his voice].

      So we’ll flatter them up, and we’ll cocker them up,

      Till we turn young brains;

      And pamper the brach till we make her a wolf,

      And get bit by the legs for our pains.

      Monks [chanting without].

      A fastu et superbiâ

      Domine libera nos.

      Min.  ’Neath sandal red and samité,

      Are knights and ladies set;

      The henchmen tall stride through the hall,

      The board with wine is wet.

      Fool.  Oh! merrily growls the starving hind,

      At my full skin;

      And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl,

      While I lie warm within.

      Monks.  A luxu et avaritiâ

      Domine libera nos.

      Min.  Hark! from the bridal bower,

      Rings out the bridesmaid’s song;

      ‘’Tis the mystic hour of an untried power,

      The bride she tarries long.’

      Fool.  She’s schooling herself and she’s steeling herself,

      Against the dreary day,

      When she’ll pine and sigh from her lattice high

      For the knight that’s far away.

      Monks.  A carnis illectamentis

      Domine libera nos.

      Min.  Blest maid! fresh roses o’er thee

      The careless years shall fling;

      While days and nights shall new delights

      To sense and fancy bring.

      Fool.  Satins and silks, and feathers and lace,

      Will gild life’s pill;

      In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old,

      Fine ladies will never fall ill.

      Monks.  A vanitatibus sæculi

      Domine libera nos.

      Sophia [to the Fool].  Silence, you screech-owl.—

      Come strew flowers, fair ladies,

      And lead into her bower our fairest bride,

      The cynosure of love and beauty here,

      Who shrines heaven’s graces in earth’s richest casket.

      Eliz.  I come, [aside] Here, Guta, take those monks a fee—

      Tell them I thank them—bid them pray for me.

      I am half mazed with trembling joy within,

      And noisy wassail round.  ’Tis well, for else

      The spectre of my duties and my dangers

      Would whelm my heart with terror.  Ah! poor self!

      Thou took’st this for the term and bourne of troubles—

      And now ’tis here, thou findest it the gate

      Of new sin-cursed infinities of labour,

      Where thou must do, or die!