Bishop. We all know, Gospel preached in the mother-tongue
Sounds too like common sense.
Con. Or too unlike it:
You know the world, your grace; you know the sex--
Bishop. Ahem! As a spectator.
Con. Philosophice--
Just so--You know their rage for shaven crowns--
How they'll deny their God--but not their priest--
Flirts--scandal-mongers--in default of both come
Platonic love--worship of art and genius--
Idols which make them dream of heaven, as girls
Dream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on bridecake.
It saves from worse--we are not all Abelards.
Bishop [aside]. Some of us have his tongue, if not his face.
Con. There lies her fancy; do but balk her of it--
She'll bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared.
Head her from that--she'll wed some pink-faced boy--
The more low-bred and penniless, the likelier.
Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool.
Tug at the kite, 'twill only soar the higher:
Give it but line, my lord, 'twill drop like slate.
Use but that eagle's glance, whose daring foresight
In chapter, camp, and council, wins the wonder
Of timid trucklers--Scan results and outcomes--
The scale is heavy in your grace's favour.
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