if our elders did not teach us to whom we ought to be rude! [Ex.
Eliz. and Page.]

Isen. See here, Sir Saxon, how this pearl of price
Is faring in your hands! The peerless image,
To whom this court is but the tawdry frame,--
The speck of light amid its murky baseness,--
The salt which keeps it all from rotting,--cast
To be the common fool,--the laughing stock
For every beardless knave to whet his wit on!
Tar-blooded Germans!--Here's another of them.

[A young Knight enters.]

Knight. Heigh! Count! What? learning to sing psalms? They are
waiting
For you in the manage-school, to give your judgment
On that new Norman mare.

Wal. Tell them I'm busy.

Knight. Busy? St. Martin! Knitting stockings, eh?
To clothe the poor withal? Is that your business?
I passed that canting baby on the stairs;
Would heaven that she had tripped, and broke her goose-neck,
And left us heirs de facto. So, farewell. [Exit.]

Wal. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough
To spoil a waggon-load of ash-staves on,
And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets.