Oh! plenty, Sir;
Which no man yet has done or e'er will do.
It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured;
It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly;
It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn;
It rests with you, whether those toiling peasants
Lift to their masters free and loyal eyes,
Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves.
It rests with you--and will rest.
Lewis. I'll crowd my court and dais with men of God,
As doth my peerless namesake, King of France.
Wal. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two counsellors
Worth any drove of priests.
Lewis. And who are they?
Wal. God and his lady-love, [aside] He'll open at that--
Lewis. I could be that man's squire.
Wal [aside] Again run riot--
Now for another cast, [aloud] If you'd sleep sound, Sir,
You'll let priests pray for you, but school you never.
Lewis. Mass! who more fitted?
Wal. None, if you could trust them;
But they are the people's creatures; poor men give them
Their power at the church, and take it back at the ale-house:
Then what's the friar to the starving peasant?
Just what the abbot is to the greedy noble--
A scarecrow to lear wolves.
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