Voice below. Ay, she can find enough to feast her minions. Woman's Voice. How can she know what 'tis, for months and months To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows, Bearing about a living babe within you? And then at night to fat yourself and it On fir-bark, madam, and water. Eliz. My good dame-- That which you bear, I bear: for food, God knows, I have not tasted food this live-long day-- Nor will till you are served. I sent for wheat From Koln and from the Rhine-land, days ago: O God! why comes it not? [Enter from below, Count Walter, with a Merchant.] Wal. Stand back; you'll choke me, rascals: Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the corn-- Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, With no white wings, but good white wheat, my boys, Quarters on quarters--if you'll pay for it. Eliz. Oh! give him all he asks. Wal. The scoundrel wants Three times its value. Merchant. Not a penny less-- I bought it on speculation--I must live-- I get my bread by buying corn that's cheap, And selling where 'tis dearest. Mass, you need it, And you must pay according to your need. Mob. Hang him! hang all regraters--hang the forestalling dog! Wal. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule. Eliz. Nay, Count; the corn is his, and his the right To fix conditions for his own. Mer. Well spoken! A wise and royal lady! She will see The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn Three months on venture. Now, so help me Saints, I am a loser by it, quite a loser-- So help me Saints, I am. Eliz. You will not sell it Save at a price which, by the bill you tender, Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, I grudge not-- I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes and jewels. Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food-- And now I have no more.--Abate, or trust Our honour for the difference. Mer. Not a penny-- I trust no nobles. I must make my profit-- I'll have my price, or take it back again. Eliz. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man, Who for thy selfish gains dost welcome make God's wrath, and battenest on thy fellows' woes, What? wilt thou turn from heaven's gate, open to thee, Through which thy charity may passport be, And win thy long greed's pardon? Oh, for once Dare to be great; show mercy to thyself! See how that boiling sea of human heads Waits open-mouthed to bless thee: speak the word, And their triumphant quire of jubilation Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and prayers, And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears. [In the meantime Walter, etc., have been throwing down the wheat to the mob.] Mob. God bless the good Count!--Bless the holy Princess-- Hurrah for wheat--Hurrah for one full stomach. Mer. Ah! that's my wheat! treason, my wheat, my money! Eliz. Where is the wretch's wheat? Wal. Below, my lady; We counted on the charm of your sweet words, And so did for him what, your sermon ended, He would have done himself. Knight. 'Twere rude to doubt it.