They'll not come near enough. Again--there are
Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert
A churchman's energies were better spent
In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark--
Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope
To this her huge capacity for sainthood--
Set her, a burning and a shining light
To all your people--Such a sacrifice,
Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood,
Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise
For the next world as for this; will clear your name
From calumnies which argue worldliness;
Buy of itself the joys of paradise;
And clench your lordship's interest with the pontiff.
Bishop. Well, well, we'll think on't.
Con. Sir, I doubt you not.
[Re-enter Elizabeth.]
Eliz. Uncle, I am determined.
Bishop. So am I.
You shall to Marpurg with this holy man.
Eliz. Ah, there you speak again like my own uncle.
I'll go--to rest [aside] and die. I only wait
To see the bones of my beloved laid
In some fit resting-place. A messenger
Proclaims them near. O God!
Bishop. We'll go, my child,
And meeting them with all due honour, show
In our own worship, honourable minds.
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