Wherefore shouldst Thou be wroth the rather, In as much as Thou, naked and in vain, Didst in Thy shameful death suffer such pain, That mankind should be clean of sin; Despite the which they do harden themselves in Wickedness so unseemly and fell That uneath may one it reckon and tell, And but to think on maketh the mind distraught. Such things as under the old law were not thought Men do now boldly perform them as soon. GOD Therein thou liest not, Maskeroon: The people be indeed so hard grown in sin That, if some amendment doth not shortly begin, My sharp sword of justice I will presently send, Which shall cut off all them that do offend, And eke My plagues, which are not light to endure. OUR LADY My child, if mankind with plagues Thou wouldst cure It were to me pure sorrow. Let Thy wrath be staid. Let there for man still a respite be made; Send Thou him first a sign and a token, Even as erewhile Thou hast unto him spoken: Earthquakes, twin suns, or a hairy star, That by these portents he may know how far Thou art stepped beyond the measure of Thy wrath. Thus peradventure man will leave the path Of sin, lest he be worse plagued to his cost. GOD Nay, Mother, that were but labor lost; I have full oft My portents shown, Whereby My wrath they might well have known; Pestilence, war, and season of dearth, The which should have brought repentance upon earth For the sins which wrong My divinity. But the worse they are plagued the worse they be, Not thinking of wailful death for ever and aye. ’Tis all: “what care I? At the last a prayer I will say And the merciful God will save me from harm.” Emma hearkening to this play bethought her of her sinful life with sad heart, with herself saying: Lord God, how doth my blood grow warm At the words I hear spoke on yon pageant-wain. These be reasons and arguments so plain That pure contrition I do begin to know. MOONEN Well, must we stand here forever? What say ye, ho! Wherefore to hear this brabbling be ye fain? Let us be gone, love. EMMA Nay, it is lost pain Thus to call and hale and tug at me in this way. Even so long as lasteth the play To make me budge a step nought will avail. ’Tis better than a sermon. MOONEN Help, Lucifer’s tail! I am in despair that here she should stay, Lest to repentance she catch the nearest way With the foolish blether to the which she giveth heed. I will bide awhile, but if she cometh not erelong with speed ’Twill be my fists shall furnish arguments. MASKEROON