Eliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch--
To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone.
Bishop. Ahem!--a pious notion--in moderation. We must be moderate,
my child, moderate: I hate overdoing anything--especially religion.
Con. Madam, between your uncle and myself
This question in your absence were best mooted.
[Exit Elizabeth.]
Bishop. How, priest? do you order her about like a servant-maid?
Con. The saints forbid! Now--ere I lose a moment--
[Kneeling.]
[Aside] All things to all men be--and so save some--
[Aloud] Forgive, your grace, forgive me,
If mine unmannered speech in aught have clashed
With your more tempered and melodious judgment:
Your courage will forgive an honest warmth.
God knows, I serve no private interests.
Bishop. Your order's, hey? to wit?
Con. My lord, my lord,
There may be higher aims: but what I said,
I said but for our Church, and our cloth's honour.
Ladies' religion, like their love, we know,
Requires a gloss of verbal exaltation,
Lest the sweet souls should understand themselves;
And clergymen must talk up to the mark.
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