Second Monk— Another dream?
First Monk—Last night, between the glances of the moon,
While his soul grabbled in the fogs of sleep,
He beheld Father's new cope in a brook,
Swishing against a fallen sycamore.
The censer and the golden chalices
Lay gleaming on the gravel.
Simon— (Who has been tipping the casks.)
And the wine?
First Monk—While he was hunting for it in his dream,
Like a blind weasel for a nest of eggs,
And had his hand on what felt like a skin,
The matins rang. He's been gruff ever since.
There's not a holy bell can call to prayer
To smooth our spirits with the thought of God,
But brings him from his hole with ruffled quills,
Threatening the belfry with his palmer's staff.
He says he hopes the Devil has snared the train
And spurred the asses off the bluffs to Hell.
Simon—Now God forbid, with all that precious wine!
Leo— (To Basil.)
I shall tell Father on you.
Basil—(Imitating Leo's small voice.) Hear him roar!
Rene—If you roar, Lion, when the hunter comes—
Soloman— (Leaning out of the window.)
Heus, heus, O fratres, favete linguis!
The train is safe. The tigers of the god
Are ramping down the mountain, yoked in vines
Whose dangling clusters sway their tawny backs
And purple all the sky above the peaks.
Limp in the car the noisy Bromios
Tips the full cup and stains his ivory breast.
Look, yonder his herald, plump Silenus, comes!
(He points up the mountain over the gate through which the Abbot passed.)