I saw no such things there; and yet they lived. Our wanton accidents take root, and grow To vaunt themselves God's laws, until our clothes, Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters Become ourselves, and we would fain forget There live who need them not. [Guta offers to robe her.] Let be, beloved-- I will taste somewhat this same poverty-- Try these temptations, grudges, gnawing shames, For which 'tis blamed; how probe an unfelt evil? Would'st be the poor man's friend? Must freeze with him-- Test sleepless hunger--let thy crippled back Ache o'er the endless furrow; how was He, The blessed One, made perfect? Why, by grief-- The fellowship of voluntary grief-- He read the tear-stained book of poor men's souls, As I must learn to read it. Lady! lady! Wear but one robe the less--forego one meal-- And thou shalt taste the core of many tales Which now flit past thee, like a minstrel's songs, The sweeter for their sadness. Lady. Heavenly wisdom! Forgive me! Eliz. How? What wrong is mine, fair dame? Lady. I thought you, to my shame--less wise than holy. But you have conquered: I will test these sorrows On mine own person; I have toyed too long In painted pinnace down the stream of life, Witched with the landscape, while the weary rowers Faint at the groaning oar: I'll be thy pupil. Farewell. Heaven bless thy labours and thy lesson. [Exit.] Isen. We are alone. Now tell me, dearest lady, How came you in this plight? Eliz. Oh! chide not, nurse-- My heart is full--and yet I went not far-- Even here, close by, where my own bower looks down Upon that unknown sea of wavy roofs, I turned into an alley 'neath the wall-- And stepped from earth to hell.--The light of heaven, The common air, was narrow, gross, and dun; The tiles did drop from the eaves; the unhinged doors Tottered o'er inky pools, where reeked and curdled The offal of a life; the gaunt-haunched swine Growled at their christened playmates o'er the scraps. Shrill mothers cursed; wan children wailed; sharp coughs Rang through the crazy chambers; hungry eyes Glared dumb reproach, and old perplexity, Too stale for words; o'er still and webless looms The listless craftsmen through their elf-locks scowled; These were my people! all I had, I gave-- They snatched it thankless (was it not their own? Wrung from their veins, returning all too late?); Or in the new delight of rare possession, Forgot the giver; one did sit apart, And shivered on a stone; beneath her rags Nestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys, Grown old before their youth; they cried for bread-- She chid them down, and hid her face and wept; I had given all--I took my cloak, my shoes (What could I else? 'Twas but a moment's want Which she had borne, and borne, day after day), And clothed her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet, Then slunk ashamed away to wealth and honour. [Conrad enters.]