Our wanton accidents take root, and grow
To vaunt themselves God's laws, until our clothes,
Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters
Become ourselves, and we would fain forget
There live who need them not. [Guta offers to robe her.]
Let be, beloved--
I will taste somewhat this same poverty--
Try these temptations, grudges, gnawing shames,
For which 'tis blamed; how probe an unfelt evil?
Would'st be the poor man's friend? Must freeze with him--
Test sleepless hunger--let thy crippled back
Ache o'er the endless furrow; how was He,
The blessed One, made perfect? Why, by grief--
The fellowship of voluntary grief--
He read the tear-stained book of poor men's souls,
As I must learn to read it. Lady! lady!
Wear but one robe the less--forego one meal--
And thou shalt taste the core of many tales
Which now flit past thee, like a minstrel's songs,
The sweeter for their sadness.

Lady. Heavenly wisdom!
Forgive me!

Eliz. How? What wrong is mine, fair dame?

Lady. I thought you, to my shame--less wise than holy.
But you have conquered: I will test these sorrows
On mine own person; I have toyed too long
In painted pinnace down the stream of life,