Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;--
If God has made you noble, use your rank,
If you but know how. You Landgravine? You mated
With gentle Lewis? Why, belike you'll cowl him,
As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse;
No--one Hedwiga at a time's enough,--
My son shall die no monk.

Isen. Beseech you, Madam,--
Weep not, my darling.

Soph. Tut--I'll speak my mind.
We'll have no saints. Thank heaven, my saintliness
Ne'er troubled my good man, by day or night.
We'll have no saints, I say; far better for you,
And no doubt pleasanter--You know your place--
At least you know your place,--to take to cloisters,
And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin,
With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens,
Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge.
There's nothing noble in you, but your blood;
And that one almost doubts. Who art thou, child?

Isen. The daughter, please your highness,
Of Andreas, King of Hungary, your better;
And your son's spouse.

Soph. I had forgotten, truly--
And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant,
And mine: come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies