Who mope for heaven because earth's grapes are sour--
Her, full of youth, flushed with the heart's rich first-fruits,
Tangled in earthly pomp--and earthly love.
Wife? Saint by her face she should be: with such looks
The queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing came
Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic
Sank fainting, drunk with beauty:--she is most fair!
Pooh! I know nought of fairness--this I know,
She calls herself my slave, with such an air
As speaks her queen, not slave; that shall be looked to--
She must be pinioned or she will range abroad
Upon too bold a wing; 't will cost her pain--
But what of that? there are worse things than pain--
What! not yet here? I'll in, and there await her
In prayer before the altar: I have need on't:
And shall have more before this harvest's ripe.

[As Conrad goes out, Elizabeth, Isentrudis, and Guta enter.]

Eliz. I saw him just before us: let us onward;
We must not seem to loiter.

Isen. Then you promise
Exact obedience to his sole direction
Henceforth in every scruple?

Eliz. In all I can,
And be a wife.

Guta. Is it not a double bondage?