Eliz. That's a gentle dream; But nature shows nought like it: every winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into the vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay-- Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses-- As I may yet!-- Isen. There, now--my foolish child! You faint: come--come to your chamber-- Eliz. Oh, forgive me! But hope at times throngs in so rich and full, It mads the brain like wine: come with me, nurse, Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries, Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe. Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years, Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud. Come, open all your lore. [Sophia and Agnes enter.] My mother-in-law! [Aside] Shame on thee, heart! why sink, whene'er we meet? Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of metal Beyond us worldlings: shrink not, if the time Be come which needs its use-- Eliz. What means this preface? Ah! your looks are big With sudden woes--speak out. Soph. Be calm, and hear The will of God toward my son, thy husband. Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then--what of that? There are friends will rescue him--there's gold for ransom-- We'll sell our castles--live in bowers of rushes-- O God! that I were with him in the dungeon! Soph. He is not taken. Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death! There's treachery! What paynim dog dare face His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage, And eyed the cowering monster to his den? Speak! Has he fled? or worse? Soph. Child, he is dead. Eliz [clasping her hands on her knees.]. The world is dead to me, and all its smiles! Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter. [Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.] Oh, stop her--stop my child! She will go mad-- Dash herself down--Fly--Fly--She is not made Of hard, light stuff, like you. Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak At the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes, These saints, who fain would 'wean themselves from earth,' Still yield to the affections they despise When the game's earnest--Now--ere they return-- Your brother, child, is dead-- Agnes. I know it too well. So young--so brave--so blest!--And she--she loved him-- Oh! I repent of all the foolish scoffs With which I crossed her. Soph. Yes--the Landgrave's dead-- Attend to me--Alas! my son! my son! He was my first-born! But he has a brother-- Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy, Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress, Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands, To my son's prejudice--There are barons, child, Who will obey a knight, but not a saint: I must at once to them. Agnes. Oh, let me stay.