Con. What dost thou, daughter?

Eliz. Ah, my honoured master!
That name speaks pardon, sure.

Con. What dost thou, daughter?

Eliz. I have been washing these poor people's feet.

Con. A wise humiliation.

Eliz. So I meant it--
And use it as a penance for my pride;
And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likings
Or stubborn self-conceit, 'tis none to me.
I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits:
Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves,
Not cures, our lofty mind.

Con. Thou speakest well--
The knave who serves unto another's needs
Knows himself abler than the man who needs him;
And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping
Implies a height to stoop from.

Eliz. Could I see
My Saviour in His poor!

Con. Thou shall hereafter: