POPE CELESTIN AND GIORDANO
Imagines not we seek your wrong in this:
Our words are meant to save God's Church and you
From this man's red and insolent hands, put forth
To pluck you out of kingdom, set you up
But as a dead thing, as a monument
That boys may spit at. Sir, if you speak of peace,
Best cover up the face of you and weep
Till he be here: it may be he will say
"Throw me that hoar scalp to the dogs," or else
"Nay, find him some low cell not overbroad
And slip the chain's knot close enough to press
The lean old wrist and elbow:" this may be.
Cel. This! Oh, God help me, but how cold it gets!
Why—but I think, by Venus, it's no spring
But winter comes to pinch us by the chin.
—Are not we vicar of the Son of God?
Are not we lord of you and him? Ha, see
How the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!
The fingers are but lank as sprays of wood
In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before—
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps always dark hair, not so thick as yours,
God help it!
Gio. I beseech your Holiness
Our words are meant to save God's Church and you
From this man's red and insolent hands, put forth
To pluck you out of kingdom, set you up
But as a dead thing, as a monument
That boys may spit at. Sir, if you speak of peace,
Best cover up the face of you and weep
Till he be here: it may be he will say
"Throw me that hoar scalp to the dogs," or else
"Nay, find him some low cell not overbroad
And slip the chain's knot close enough to press
The lean old wrist and elbow:" this may be.
Cel. This! Oh, God help me, but how cold it gets!
Why—but I think, by Venus, it's no spring
But winter comes to pinch us by the chin.
—Are not we vicar of the Son of God?
Are not we lord of you and him? Ha, see
How the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!
The fingers are but lank as sprays of wood
In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before—
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps always dark hair, not so thick as yours,
God help it!
Gio. I beseech your Holiness
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