What! you would mount to heaven upon our backs?
The ass has thrown his rider.' She crept on--
I washed my garments in the brook hard by--
And came here, all the wiser.
Guta. Miscreant hag!
Isen. Alas, you'll freeze.
Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch
Could harbour such a spite?
Eliz. Nay, who could dream
She would have guessed my heart so well? Dull boors
See deeper than we think, and hide within
Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths,
Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose.
They grind among the iron facts of life,
And have no time for self-deception.
Isen. Come--
Put on my cloak--stand here, behind the wall.
Oh! is it come to this? She'll die of cold.
Guta. Ungrateful fiend!
Eliz. Let be--we must not think on't.
The scoff was true--I thank her--I thank God--
This too I needed. I had built myself
A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven,
Of poor men's praise and prayers, and subtle pride
At mine own alms. 'Tis crumbled into dust!
Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh--
And here's its strength! I'll walk by faith--by faith
And rest my weary heart on Christ alone--
On him, the all-sufficient!
Shame on me! dreaming thus about myself,
While you stand shivering here.
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