(To First.) Come here ... You're Serlio,
Of the Ascension. You?
2nd Acolyte. Hilarion.
From Santa Maria by the Templars' well,
Which God looks on with gratitude, father.
For though we're poor and are unworthy servants
We've given willingly our widow's mite.
And now we ...
Moro. You are summoned to this place
For ministrations other than the tongue's.
Prepare that altar—masses for the dead.
Hilarion. Man is as grass that withers!
Moro. Kindle all
Its tapers. The departed will be borne
Hither for holy care and sacred rest.
So do—then after
Look to that image of the Magdalen,
Once it has fallen.
Serlio. Domine, dirige!
(Moro goes. They put off cant and set to work.)
Hilarion (insolently, lighting a taper).
We'll have good wine for this!
Serlio. The Chian! Hee!
None's like the Chian! and to-morrow, meat!
Last week old Ugo died and we had pheasant.
Hilarion. When we are priests we'll give no comforting
To wife or maid—till we have sipped!