But for all that the Archbishop washed my feet o' Tuesday.
He likes it, my lord.
6TH BEGGAR.
And see here, my lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my leg. It's
humbling--it smells o' human natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my lord? for
the Archbishop likes the smell on it, my lord; for I be his lord and
master i' Christ, my lord.
DE MORVILLE.
Faugh! we shall all be poisoned. Let us go.
[_They draw back,_ BEGGARS _following_.
7TH BEGGAR.
My lord, I ha' three sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating sickness.
They be dead while I be a-supping.
8TH BEGGAR.
And I ha' nine darters i' the spital that be dead ten times o'er i'
one day wi' the putrid fever; and I bring the taint on it along wi'
me, for the Archbishop likes it, my lord.
[_Pressing upon the_ KNIGHTS _till they disappear thro' the door_.
3RD BEGGAR.
Crutches, and itches, and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, and
running sores, praise ye the Lord, for to-night ye have saved our
Archbishop!
1ST BEGGAR.
I'll go back again. I hain't half done yet.
HERBERT OF BOSHAM (_entering_).
My friends, the Archbishop bids you good-night.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70