The female prelate being the history of the life and death of Pope Joan : a tragedy: as it is acted at the Theatre Royal / written by Elkanah Settle ...

Pope John VIII, etc▪

ACT I.

Saxony and Angeline with Attendants.

Sax.

MY dearest Angeline, my softest Bride! Oh never did the Rising Sun salute A man more happy, or a day more glorious: Last night, our Nuptial Coronation night: Oh the vast Scenes of my immortal Joys! To what high Orb of Glory am I wrapt? So a translated Soul caught up to Heaven, Stands on the Battlements of his new Paradise, And with a wondring eye surveys how far He has left the distant under-world beneath him.

Ang.

My dearest Lord, this is extremely kind, And I, methinks, have such an equal share In my dear Lords delight, that —oh my Lord, Something I had to say, but I want words, Oh let my Blushes speak the rest, for I am Too young in Love to talk.

Sax.

Blush on, sweet Innocence. Blush till thy burning Cheeks Glow like the Incense on a Vestal Fire, Then in my Arms let thy warm sweets expire. But tho' I am — Encircled round with all the Harmony Of Soveraignty, Power, Wealth and Honours,

Whilst Fortune sings above, and pleasures dance around me: Nay, to summ all, though I have Thee, a Treasure So far above th' enjoyment of a Crown (For Crowns the world has brighter, Beauties none.) Yet with all these I am not intirely happy. Oh, Angeline, I had a Father, Whose Blood, whose Royal Blood is unrevenged.

Ang.

And does that melancholy thought arise At this untimely hour?

Sax.

Yes, my sweet Angeline, I had a Father, A Prince so Excellent, so truly Noble, Too good for this base world, and yet from this Base world too early ravish'd to the Stars. For in reward of all his manly Virtues Was this unhappy Prince most basely poysoned: Nay, poysoned by a Priest, his savage Confessor. That cursed Slave that fed upon his Smiles, Fill'd the dire Bowl, and whilst the canting Villain Was whispering Heaven into his Ear, could lift Damnation to his Lips; but by what motives To such Ingratitude, Heaven only knows.

Ang.

My Lord, I cannot blame your Noble Piety. But now consider seven long years are past, And in that time the mourning Robe should sure Be quite worn out.

Sax,

Never, my Angeline. Methinks I've still the poysoner in my eye; That white-faced Dog, that venom-mouth'd Mungril: None of our burly, strutting Gown-men, Who pamper'd with the Roman Altars Luxury, Swell and grow fat with the rich Churches Riot, But a thin meagre Eunuch-featur'd Starvling Lean even with surfeiting, his Looks as pale As Envy, but his Soul as black as Hell.

Ang.

Why these rough blasts t'uncalm your sweeter Airs! What though the Villain could escape your fury, And by his flight protect his impious head? For seven long years concealed from your just Rage;

No doubt, ere this, Heaven's longer Arm has reach'd him, And finished your imperfect Vengeance for you; Punishing his Crimes by his untimely Fate.

Sax.

That's not enough t'appease a Father's Ghost, Blood requires blood, and vengeance weilds a Sword That cuts on both sides: Guilt should find Pains on earth, as well as Plagues in Hell. But where the safe Offenders lives Till the slow hand of Chance or Nature strikes, It blunts one edge of Fate.

Ang.

Divert this sullen thought, And tell me who amongst our Bustling Cardinals That flock from all the Corners of the world To tug for Rome's bright Tripple Diadem You think will next succeed.

Sax.

I neither know, nor care. But could they chuse a Pope that had the Keys Of Hell, as well as Heav'n, and would be kind And lock that Poysoner from the infernal Jayl, Till I had but one dear pull at's Heart-strings, Next my dear Angeline, I'd chuse no Saint, On this side Heaven but him.

Enter several Cardinals, crossing the Stage.

Ang.

Still, my loved Lord, you make Your self, and your poor Angeline uneasie. But see the Cardinals flock to the Conclave. Now were I Confessor to these grave Lords, I would lay odds, there's not that Priest amongst'em But has so great an Itch to be a Pope, That on my conscience he'd shake hands with Heaven And fairly quit his hopes of Crowns above Proudly to lord it over Kings below. But see the pomp encreases.

Enter John, Lord Cardinal of Rhemes, with his Attendants, cros∣sing the Stage.

Sax,

Look, my Angeline; Seest thou that face!

Angel.

That gay effeminate Priest.

Sax.

By all my hopes, by the dear charms of Vengeance My Father's poysoner: Carlo, dog that Cardinal And from his Followers enquire his name.

Exit Servant.

I've found him now: he lives, ye Gods, he lives. But is the Villain made a Cardinal! Good Heaven, can it consist with thy great Justice To dress a Monster in a Robe so Princely!

Ang.

My dearest Love, no doubt he has been preserved By Miracle, advanced to all these Honours, Given as a Brand, not a Reward from Heaven; Raised only to this height to fall a greater Sacrifice.

Sax.

Yes; my best Life, thou hast it. Had I stabb'd This Monster in the fact; Or brought him in his naked Native Poverty, A Ragged Russet Priest to a Tribunal, How little had I paid toth' injured Manes Of the great Duke of Saxony. But now Thanks, my kind Stars, he is a Prince, a Cardinal, Fit for my Father's Victim. Oh, 'twere brave To stab him in the publick Consistory.

Ang.

How, my dear Lord!

Sax.

Yet let me think again: So in the Senate fell the martyr'd Caesar: And that's a Fate too glorious for a Villain.

Ang.

Oh, Sir, take heed of such a wild revenge Lest taking of his life should hazard yours. And do you love your Angeline no better Than to endanger her dear Lord?

Sax.

Thy Reasons and thy Love shall guide my hand: I'll take thy kind advice and move more calmly. Rashness and Vengeance never were Allies:

Revenge is witty when it walks, not flies. Consider too I am in a Christian World; The Court of Rome, the Head and Spring of Justice. A Ponyard and a Sword are Arms too bright: A Scaffold and an Axe shall do me right.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Cardinal John, Lorenzo and Amiran.

John.

Now my best Love, we are in our private state, I thy kind Juno, thou my faithful Jove, And our sworn Loyal Ganimede alone, And now we are our selves.

Lor.

Yes, my dear mask'd Divinity: We are the only two that know what Treasure This borrowed Casket holds, and I the Lord that wear it.

Joh.

Thus far has my Disguise, and my Designs Deceived the blinded world; for seven long years My Arts and Sex concealed: nay, and to heighten The miracle, I have lived an undiscovered Woman, Bred amongst Priests, high fed, hot-blooded Priests, Those long-wing'd Hawks at all the Female Game: Yet I've defyed their keenest eyes to track me: I could grow proud with the imagination, And talk as big as a victorious Lover.

Lor.

But how much prouder would you talk, should Romes Great Lottery in this Election throw Her Diadem at your Feet.

Joh.

That were Fates Master-piece. Glory, bewitching Glory; oh, for the Popedom! Bring me some God, or what else power beside, Some kinder Devil, but toth' Roman Chair, And I am thy Slave for ever. How 'twould please me To reign the Christian World's dread Thunderer all The day, and thy soft Venus all the night.

Lor.

My best dear Angel: Alas, who knows but fortune may be kind;

And the fair Lot fall to this fairer hand.

Joh.

Yes, 'twould be kind indeed; grant That, and I Have all my wishes in both worlds complete. Yes, I could make a Pope, and like that proud Stupendious thing sit at the Helm of Heav'n, And with my Breath unlock the Gates of Paradice. Let 'em but bring me golden Offerings, And I would make Heavens Chrystal Hinges fly: Fill my Exchequer, and my Purgatory Should soon be empty. Yet methinks for our Stoln pleasures sake, I should be kind to Love, And sell my pardons cheap to poor expiring Lovers.

Lor.

The Subject gives you mirth; I see your Transports Have made you witty.

Joh.

Yes, and serious too. Could I but reach the Roman Diadem; I'd sit within my Romes seven Hills as glorious As once the fam'd Semiramis within Her Babylonian Towers. Her Female Hand Did the worlds Scepter guide, and why not mine? A Kingly Soul her borrowed manhood wore; Whilst like a God she sate within her Cloud, And moved her world beneath her.

Enter Servant.

Ser.

The Duke of Saxony desires admittance.

Joh.

Oh, in these lines he tracks his Father's poysoner. I see seven years have not quite worn my Face out. Admit the harmless Blusterer.

Exit Servant.

—'Tis true; Once two whole years he had me in the chace. Then but an inconsiderable Monk, Too weak to grapple with so fierce a Hunter, Through all Disguises, Shapes and Names I dodged him, Till the cold scent made him give o'r the Game. But I am above thee now. Yes Prince, I had Intelligence how the famed Roman Beauty Had brought thee from thy Saxony to Rome:

And well foresaw this Face here would soon rowze A sleeping Blood-hound. But, alas, weak Champion, We come prepared to meet thy feeble Rage.

Enter Saxony, ushered in by the Attendants of Rhemes.

Sax.

Lord Cardinal of Rhemes, for to that name Your prodigal Stars have called you, Oh that Specter!

Joh.

Young Saxony go on.

Sax.

Yes, Cardinal. Hither I come to wake your drowzy Conscience, And tell you, that this Scarlet Mantle shrowds That canker'd Fiend that stung my Father dead.

Joh.

How, my young Lord!

Sax.

Yes, my young poisoner.

Joh.

Before I answer to this peal of Thunder, I ought t'examine if I am more than Man, For Flesh and Blood should tremble at these sounds.

Sax.

And does not thine?

John.

Mine!

Sax.

Yes, thine, proud Priest, does not a rising damp From the cold Vault that holds my Fathers Bones, Freeze thy black Blood, and make thy staggering Frame Shrink at my Vengeance.

Joh.

Harmless Thunderer, no: The feeble blast flies o'er this Princely Tower, And not one Column shakes.

Sax.

Triumphant Impudence! Can I bear this! at thy rank Soul.

Draws.

Lor.

Forbear this Insolence.

Sax.

Unhand me Ruffians.

Lor.

Hold, desperate Lord. Lift but an Arm once more Against that Life, and by the Gods, thy Soul Attends thy Father's Ghost.

Sax.

How. Braved by thee! And what art thou, Domestick, small Dependant On that proud Thing; Heaven, like the Sun in Egypt, Has warm'd that venomous Dirt into a Monster. And thou'rt a Bubble in the Mud beneath him.

Lor.

How, sawcy Lord!

Joh.

Lorenzo, hold. Young Saxony, no more.

Sax.

Dared by his Slaves! can I bear this, and live. Some Ague chill my Veins, or some kind Palsey Unnerve my Arm, lest it out-run my Reason.

Lor.

Rash Prince, this Fury does not fit this place. Think where you are!

Amir.

Yes, Sir, think where you are. Within the Palace of a Roman Prelate, A place too sacred —

Sax.

Peace, ye Limbs of Vengeance. Dare you presume to prate? Because that Wizard Has to damnation sign'd and sealed his Soul; To fill the pomp of his infernal State, He has wisely bargained with his Patron Devils For this young Imp, and that tall Fiend to guard him.

Joh.

Hold, Sir, we understand your provocations: And therefore can forgive these wild Excursions. But to restore your peace, you shall have Justice.

Sax.

I will have Justice, Priest.

John.

First I consider you're the Heir of Saxony; And to all Princely Blood my Soul pays Honour. Next, you have a Father lost, a murder'd Father: And to all Greatness in Distress, Humanity Commands my Pity. Lastly, I am a Church-man, And should disgrace the Sacred Robe I wear, Should I attempt to stop the course of Justice, Or make the groaning Ghost of Saxony Unsatisfied. Well, Sir, I am your Mark: Now name me both my Judge, and my Tribunal.

Sax.

Bold Cardinal, I take you at your word: And bring my Cause before the Consistory: There, if thou darest appear—

John.

Dare! yes, as cheerfully As a young Lover on his Bridal Night. But meet me quickly there. For know, young Prince, I am your Accuser now, and not you mine. Your Tongue has rais'd a Blister on my Name,

Canker'd my Glory with the Brand of Murd'rer, Nor can I come too soon to'th' Ear of Justice. Make haste, young Duke; for I have a wounded Fame Must be made whole again.

Sax.

Yes, my brisk Prelate, Meet me this hour.

John.

This hour I'll meet you there.

Sax.

And then—

Exit Saxony.

John.

How I could laugh at this poor Animal. Do; hunt me close: and scent thy Father's Blood. But know, hot fool, I have the Priest to play yet; A Roman Dance to lead you. I could hug my self For my rare Mischiefs. Oh my fertile Brain! Why was not I the first created Woman? 'Sdeath, I'd have met the subtle plotting Serpent, And by my Arts blown up the shallow Fiend: Thus from its doom the threatned world recall; And countermine the lost Creations fall.

Exeunt.

The Scene changes to the Consistory.

First Cardinal.

Brethren and Partners in this Royal Sessions; This Fair Divine Assembly, in the Name Of Albert Duke of Saxony: I bring a Cause before this great Tribunal, Worthy the Ear of Heav'n, his Princely Father's Murder.

Card. 2.

My Lord of Millains Reverenceship speaks well: But why, my Lord, this Tryal at this hour: Think of the properer Business of the Day, The new Election of our Heavenly Vicar. Does not that Throne stand empty? By my holy Dame 'Tis fit that first we set a Head on headless Rome.

Card. 3.

My good Lord Cardinals Reasons would be just In any case but this; but know, my Lord, It is a member of our own Society, That stands accused, the Cardinal of Rhemes. And shall we entertain a Murderer, Within these Sacred Walls, and at this time too;

When Heavens Commissions are just issuing out To chuse a Brow from out this Royal Synod To wear th'Imperial Mitre, and to Reign Romes Lord, Heavens Chancellor, and the great Keeper Of the bright Seals of Paradice. And shall we Amongst this glorious Constellation harbour A Murderer, have his black impious hand Be mix'd amongst these Princely Candidates, And grasp at th'hallowed Roman Diadem?

Card. 3.

You, my good Lord of Millain, speak the sense Of the whole Consistory. We and Heaven Do think it just, that the infected Body Be purged before we consecrate the Head. Stand forth then, Albert, Duke of Saxony, And John, Lord Cardinal of Rhemes, stand forth.

Enter on one side the Stage the Duke of Saxony: on the other John Lord Cardinal of Rhemes with their respective Train.

Sax.

Most Reverend Lords, Romes ever awful Senate From whose wide Rays of never setting Glory Truth, Faith, Religion gild th'enlightned Globe. Hither I bring to your divinest Justice A Treason of the deepest blackest Dye That Night e'er shelter'd, or the day ere blush'd at. Committed by that impious Prelate John▪ Lord Cardinal of Rhemes.

Card. 2.

Boldly and bravely.

Sax.

But e'er I prove the monstrous Fact, I have One Grace to beg from this Devout Assembly. Not that I need to beg it. 'Tis a Boon You'll grant unask'd, and yet my zeal must speak.

Card. 1.

Speak freely, ask with reason, and obtain.

Sax.

Then I implore, that not the Brother-Name Of Cardinal, his Title, Robe or Office Plead for him, make this whole untainted Body Be over tender of a gangreen'd Limb, Because a part of it self.

Card. 4.

My Lord, you wrong us. Know who we are, Heavens Representatives. And can you think the Tree of Paradice Would ever cherish a rank spurious Branch! Or we permit a bloody wounded Straggler To herd for shelter 'mongst the purer Flock. No Saxony; we drive him out, and give him An open Field and Law for Life or Death.

Card. 1.

Now, Duke of Saxony, plead and be heard.

Sax.

Thus then—that now Lord Cardinal of Rhemes, Seven years ago, a Benedictine Monk, Was Confessor to my unhappy Father, That Cardinal, now disguised by the false name Of John, more like a Robber than a Christian, Was then call'd Theodore. 'Twas in that name He grew acquainted with my Princely Father. Thus blest, thus honoured, by a rise so sudden He won so far my Royal Father's Favour; His Ear, his Hand, his Soul was all his own. But by what Magick Arts so false a Snake Could twine within that Royal Princes Heart, Just Heaven above, and his own Hells within him Can only tell.

Card. 2.

To this your Answer, Lord.

John.

Thus far I own my brave Accuser just: I was this Prince's Father's Confessor, His Favourite, Friend, Confident. Nay, the whole Circle of his Deeds, Thoughts, Councils, All center'd in my heart.

Sax.

And in return To all this Honour, hear his black Ingratitude; One Evening, a curs'd hour damn'd from Eternity, This treacherous Sycophant being alone With my unhappy▪ Father in his Closet, To make their privacy more cheerful, A Bowl of Wine was call'd for, and about Three hours this Conference held, till night adjourn'd The Consult, and so silenc'd 'em to Bed.

Thus parted, scarce the Morning Sun could wake, Or frighted, waked too soon, but this Allarm Fill'd the whole Court, the Duke, the Duke is poysoned. We found him raving, all his Veins on Fire, His restless Bed more like his Funeral Pile; His Priest being call'd, we found his Chamber empty: By th'help of night the Hellish Fiend was vanish'd. But oh, he had left his Sulphurous Brand behind him; For that was burning in my Father's Heart.

Card. 2.

There's horror in this Deed. Now by my Holy Dame, A thundring Accusation. But what proofs, What Witnesses for all this Tragick Story.

Sax.

All his Attendants, Nobles, Menials, almost The whole sad Court of Saxony were all Spectators of their Royal Masters Fall. But let these few, the Representatives Of a whole Mourning Dukedom, speak their knowledge.

Card. 3.

Stand forth, and speak.

One of the Attendants steps out.

Att. 1.

To these blest Walls I bow, Romes ever Sacred Vatican.

Card. 1.

What art thou!

Att. 1.

A Gentleman; for twenty years a Servant To the great Dukes of Saxony.

Card. 3.

Are they all sworn?

Priest.

My Lord, they are.

Card. 3.

Proceed.

Att.

All that my Prince has said against that Priest, Is Oracle, only more truth, and less Mysterious; and to lay his Father's Murder More close to that ungrateful Monster's Charge; When he was told the conscious Monk was fled, Amidst his dying Groans these Accents fell, And is my Friend, my Priest, my Murderer! Heaven, if the Priestly Robe, your own bright Livery Can shrowd such Treason, bring me to that Throne, Where th'unoffending, untaught Infidel Sits crown'd, whilst the Apostate Christian burns.

This we all swear to.

All.

All.

Card. 1.

Degenerate World, Oh, whither art thou faln!

Att. 2.

Hear Me, my Lords. I have had the honour many years together To have that murder'd Prince no less my charge, Than that false Confessors; only this difference; I was his Healths more faithful, than that Traitor His Soul's Physician; and as my last Office To my dead Lord, with my own hand through his Dissected Veins I track'd the Drug that kill'd him. He died by poyson.

Sax.

Truth more evident no Tribunal ever heard, no God e'er punish'd.

Card. 1.

Crimes terrible, proofs strong, and circumstances Invincible. Rhemes, What defence to this!

Joh.

That Saxonys great Duke died by my hand, I own: But that he fell by Treason, I deny. 'Tis the intention of the mind, and not The deed that makes the crime. Who but in thought Dares lift a hand against a Soveraign Head, Is both a Rebel to his Prince, and God. But he That strikes a Dagger to a Traitor's Heart, Though ne'er so Princely born, does Heaven good service. Know then, that Traitor was the Saxon Duke, And I that Traitor's Executioner.

Sax.

Traitor? to what! to whom! What means the Villain!

John.

Traitor to Rome, to Romes Supremacy, To Romes Religion, and Romes God a Traitor.

Sax.

Oh execrable Dog.

Card. 1.

Mark what you say, bold Lord, take heed you lay not An Imputation on a Princely Family,

To Rhemes.

Adde crimes to crimes, and with invenomed Breath Attempt to play the poysoner o'er again.

John.

Then let the injured Majesty of Rome

Know, the old Duke of Saxony held a League Confederate with the German Traytor Damasus.

Card. 2.

How that Arch-Heretick, that Arrian Monster, Rebel to Rome and Heaven! some three years since Burnt at Ravenna.

John.

Yes, my Lord, the same.

Sax.

This, if the Traitor proves—

John.

This, if I prove not Shame, and the publick Gibbet brand the Liar.

Card. 1.

Go on, thou bold Impeacher.

Sax.

Yes, go on. Shew thy rank Gaul, and the thin Veil that shrowds it.

John.

Thus let me speak.

Produces Letters.

Card. 2.

Ha! what are these.

John.

The whole Conspiracy.

Card. 3.

Let 'em be read.

Card. 4.

A Pacquet Of Letters to the Duke of Saxony.

Card. 3.

Let 'em be read.

Card. 4.

To Albert, Duke of Saxony.

Reads.

Sir,

I Cannot express the transport your Royal Excellence gives me, when you tell me your Army is completely raised, and that you are ready in their head to strike your Dagger in the Gates of Rome, and lay the Scarlet prostitute in Ashes—

Card. 2.

Monstrum horrendum!

Reads on.

All the Levies I can raise amongst the Loyal German Christians shall not be wanting to carry on so holy a War. Continue still to believe, that Romes usurpt Supremacy, as it began by the grand Rebel Phocas, as it commenced by a Traitor, so it is maintained by an Impostor, whilst that very ground that falsly stiles it self the sacred Sheep-fold, is now made the publick Mart of Souls, the Royal Exchange for a Trade into Heaven, where Religion toils at the Mint, and Holiness sits at the Receipt of Custom, whilst the broad Seal for everlasting par∣dons is stampt in Gold. In fine, the Pope with all his Limbs, the

Cardinals, is but a growing Hydra; and whilst your Excellence con∣tinues your noble Resolution of being the Hercules that shall destroy that Hydra, you shall not want the prayers, nor assistance of,

My Lord

Your Excellencies dutiful and faithful Slave, Damasus.

Sax.

Oh hear me, Lords.

Card. 1.

You shall be heard anon, let him read on.

Card. 1.

To Albert, Duke of Saxony.

Reads.

Whereas your Royal Excellence is pleas'd T'espouse the Cause of Truth and Heaven against The false usurping Rome—

Card. 2.

All the same brand. The same black mark of Hell, we'll hear no more.

Sax.

All Forgery, rank Forgery, damn'd Impostor. My Royal Father ne'er receiv'd one syllable Of those forged Libels, held no Heretick Leagues With any German Traitor.

Card. 2.

But, bold Defendant, speak, how do you prove These monstrous Libels true; this League; these Letters Received by Saxony, and writ by Damasus.—

John.

By these two honest Gentlemen.

Card. 1.

What are you?

Gentl. 1.

Two Germans, formerly th'unhappy Servants Of an accursed Master th'Heretick Damasus. Till Heaven by his just punishment had warn'd Our wandring Souls, and our lost sense restored.

Card. 1.

And by your Oaths those were your Master's hand.

Gent. 2.

My Lord, they are.

Card. 3.

You saw him write 'em?

Gent. 1.

Yes.

Card. 4.

You knew the whole Conspiracy 'twixt him And Saxony?

Gent. 2.

We did.

Card. 4.

Their walks, their motions?

Gent. 1.

All.

Card. 4.

And Romes Subversion was their Theam?

Gent. 1.

It was.

Card. 4.

Lord Cardinals, Romans, Brothers, Church-men, Friends,

Can such things be, and Roman Hearts not tremble, Could such a Rebel Duke deserve to live!

Sax.

By all that's good, I'll stake my Crown, my Life, My Soul, these Slaves are false, let 'em but prove One Syllable in my wrong'd Father's Hand To countenance this Conspiracy: Which if they do, make Me your Martyr too; Doom me t' a Bowl of my own Father's poison, Administred by the same Hangman's hand.

Card 1.

But can you witness ought of Saxon's Letters Received in countenance, and answer to This Treason!

Gent. 1.

Yes, my Lord.

Card. 2.

Several?

Gent. 2.

Many. Which, we as Confidents and Parties In the Confederacy, perused and read.

Card. 2.

Can you produce those Letters?

Gent. 1.

No, my Lord. For still the cautious Damasus made his Soul His Treasons Cabinet, all dangerous Papers No sooner read, but burnt.

Cacd. 3.

Politick Devil!

Sax.

Excellent proof! Oh, Roman Prelates, if you've Truth, Faith, Honour, Remove this Cloud that shades my Father's Fame: This is all Cheat, Disguise, rank counterfeit. My Royal Father was a constant Catholick, His Faith and Life incorporate, his Principles Suck'd in from Romes own Breast.

Card. 4.

So 'tis a Sign.

Sax.

And in some base revenge, perhaps on purpose For his unshaken constancy to Rome, By that false Heretick, and this falser Priest, Those very Papers were received, and sent My Father's Soul a Stranger to the Villany. Low as his Grave throw down their feeble Batteries; Oh, Romans, hold the Scale of Justice right;

Weigh the true value of a Prince's Honour, A Prince's Blood and Life.

Card. 3.

Bold German, is Romes Wisdom, and Romes Conclave To be instructed how to judge, or act?

Sax.

And for that Army which my Father rais'd, 'Twas all design'd to fright our ancient Foe, The warlike Vandal.

Rhemes.

That was the pretence, But Romes Subversion, and Religion's Ruine Was the Design.

Card. 4.

And my good Lord of Rhemes, 'Twas in prevention of a dangerous Heresie, And to revenge our injured Church, you gave The Duke this poyson?

Rhemes,

Yes, my Lord, I did. But, oh! it grieved my Soul to kill my Prince: My Friend, my Patron; nay, my generous Patron: But in a cause so just, for Romes bright Glory, Our Mother Churches Right, I'd not have spared a Brother, Father, Friend, Soveraign; in a cause so good Kingdoms should groan, and Monarch's set in Blood.

Card. 1.

Come to our Arms—

Card. 2.

T' our Arms, dear Lord of Rhemes.

Hugging him.

Card. 3.

Religions Bulwark—

Card. 4.

Truth's Defender, welcome.

Card. 1.

Romes Patriot, and Heaven's Champion, ever welcome Bright Son of Fame, we and our Saints are all Your Debtors for this meritorious Service.

Sax.

Is this your Doom! Churchmen you call your selves; Is this a Church Reward for murder'd Majesty? Oh I could rave! but Lords, I'll reason calmly. Grant those false Libellers, and this poysoner honest. Yes, grant my Father that lewd thing they paint him: Nay more, suppose th'Almighty Rome has power To judge a King, and doom a Soveraign Head.

Card. 1.

Suppose it, Saxon!

Sax.

Yes, suppose it, Priest. Were he a Criminal, why were not all

Those intercepted Letters sent to Rome, And he as an Offender fairly tried, Call'd to the Bar, to Romes King-killing Bar, And his Accusers met him face to face!

Rhemes.

T'have waged in publick 'gainst so great an Adversary, Had been t'have had our Cause and martyr'd Throats Both silenced, Treason hush'd, Truth undiscovered, And Rome for ever unrevenged.

Card. 1.

How, German, A private man impeach an Heretick King, Call him to Law, and face to face convict him. Does the weak Traveller face the roaring Lion, Or spotted Leopard, and grapple Arm to Arm? No, foolish Prince, Does he not straight fly to some hollow Cave, Or climb some Cedars Top, from whose safe stand Does he not watch a lucky hour, and shoot Th'unwary Savage dead, or in a Foyl The snared Devourer seize; and Sir, Are Heretick Kings less Brutes, less Savages Than Lions, Tygers, Leopards, or less To be destroyed than they? or must Rome kill By open hostile Arms? The Churches strength Lies not in Spear, or Launce, or ponderous Steel. A Pebble slung from out a righteous hand May strike a Giant dead.

Sax.

How, Roman Prelates, Are these your Principles? Some pitying Saint keep in my boiling rage, And wall me round with Adamant. Church Hypocrites! false Bastard Prophets, hear me.

Card. 1.

Take him away, and stop the Railer's Mouth.

Card. 2.

No, let him stay, and hear the voice of Rome.

Card. 1.

Is it by me you speak!

All Card.

Speak, Lord of Millain.

Card. 1.

First, our whole Consistory votes her Thanks To this illustrious Lord. Next, as a monument T'an Hereticks infamy; if the Boul that held

The sacred Drug can be by art or Gold Recovered, we decree, that it be consecrated, As an Eternal Relick to the Chappel at Loretto: Lastly, that the sleeping Bones Of the dead Saxon Heretick, unworthy To mix with the untainted Royal Dust Of his great Ancestors, be taken up, Removed, and buryed in unhallow'd Ground.

Sax.

Disturb my Father's Dust, what Cerberus Dog amongst ye Dares growl a sound so impious? Ye Cardinal Wolves, tear up his Royal Bones, Do, if you dare! keep your Prerogative To hector Kingdoms, and to hag-ride Kings. But know, We are too great, and Saxony too honest. That Blood-hound Priest, that Jackall Monk that dares With his invenom'd Claws but touch his Tomb, By all the Conclave Devils, and the Ghost Of my dead Father, dies upon a Gibbet.

Card. 2.

And are we threatned too! By the Divinity Of Rome, bold Arrogance, thy forfeit Head But thrust him out, and shut our Gates against him

The Scene shuts upon him, and the Consistory closes.

Sax.

Farewel, ye Scarlet Blood-hounds: Are these the Lords that yoke the Necks of Kings! How sensless is that dull Imperial Head That makes his Scepter to the Crosier bow, By Heavens he's both a Coward and a Slave. Romes upstart Idol 'bove his Throne he rears, And servilely creates the God he fears, Down goes his Majesty, and down his Fame, Pope is the King, and Monarch but the name.

Exit.

Finis Actus Primi.

ACT II.

Saxony and Angeline.

Sax.

OH Rome, thou once great Mistress of the World: How much thy ancient Royal Capitol Exceeds th'adulterate Vatican; when Pagans And Infidels possess'd thee, they were honest. The blind Idolaters that kneel'd and prayed To their deaf, sensless, Molten Gods, were Saints To this Church Spawn; this Nest of Scarlet Tyrants.

Ang.

Indeed my Lord, this strange inverted Justice Is very hard, but bear it like a man.

Sax.

Yes, when I am treated like a man; but Princes Are less than Dogs, where base-born Priests controul. I and my Cause with all my loud tongued Wrongs Spurn'd from their presence, and my Father's Blood, Of that small value, that the Purple Juice That fills the pamper'd Prelates Epicurean Gorge, Is spilt with more Concern than the Blood of Princes.

Ang.

Calm your untimely rage; when Ills are past Redressing, and all other hope forsakes us, Patience is then the wise man's last companion.

Sax.

Patient! oh never, till Romes Consistory And Justice fill one Throne, and that must be When contraries unite, When Truth and Falshood Incorporate. Suppose my Princely Father Had been an Heretick: but if my Soul Dares play the Prophet, 'twas some private malice That gave the Tragick Blow: and this pretended Heresie; Some false Machine that moved the specious Scene. But grant it true; why was he not accused, Summon'd and call'd before th'all judging Rome, And doom'd by Law; if Rome can judge a King? Had he been weighed in Justice equal Ballance, And found too light, than to have hoist The mounting Scale, and tript him up to Heaven Had been a doom

Worthy the Glory of the Tripple Diadem. But to be kill'd by a Poysoner and a Traitor, And lesses crimes by greater crimes be punish'd; Yes, the whole Conclave hug him for the fact: Come to our Arms, t'our Arms, dear Lord of Rhemes: We and our Saints are all your Debtors.

Ang.

Enough, my Lord!

Sax.

Yet, what confounds all humane sense to think The Papal Crown's fix'd on this Monster's Brow: Nay, rais'd too by the merit of a Poysoner: My Father's blood advanced him to the Popedom: Crown'd him Heaven's Vicar for Hells blackest Murder.

Ang.

Yet hold my Lord.

Sax.

With these damn'd Principles a begging Friar Shall stab a King, a lowzy tatter'd Monk Be a Monarch's Judge and Executioner. Is this the Justice of th' Imperial Mitre! Covents and Cloysters thus are Romes Tribunals, Daggers and Poysons are their Axe and Fasces, Pallaces their Scaffolds, and the Priestly Robe The Hangman's Livery.

Enter Lorenzo, Priests and Officers.

Lor.

Seize him.

They seize him·

Ang.

Ha! What are these?

Lor.

I come to tell you, that your loud-mouth'd Scandals 'Gainst Rome, and Romes Imperial Dignity Have pulled down vengeance on your Blasphemies. It is his Holiness pleasure that you stand Both excommunicated and deposed, Your Titles, Honours, Principalities All forfeited and lost, no more the Duke Of Saxony, but a private Malefactor, Mine and Romes Prisoner.

Ang.

Cruel Stars!

Sax.

Unhand me.

Lor.

'Tis too late.

Sax.

Too late! By what authority, officious Slave To thy proud Lord, am I thus basely seiz'd. Against all Honour, Conscience, Law, Religion?

Oh, the inhospitable Walls of Rome▪

Lor.

By the Imperial Roman Prelacy, In justice to your impious Execrations.

Sax.

Traytor, 'tis false, Romes boasting Tyrant lies. If I have done ill, I am a Soveraign Prince; And faults of Princes stand accountable Only to Heaven; and that too not till death. But Rome can both depose and murder Kings; So far that pride that falsly styles it self Servant of Servants borrows a Prerogative Above its God; such Blasphemies are lodged In this infallible and universal.

Lor.

These dangerous outrages ill fit your fate, But notwithstanding all your just Deserts, Hear the soft sounds of Mercy, which I bring: His tender Holiness in commiseration Both of your blooming youth, and Princely Blood, Tells you by me, if prostrate on your knees You implore pardon both from Heaven and him, That done, the bright Divinity of Rome Stoops from his Throne, and lays his Thunder by T'accept your penitence; his Royal Mercy Shines pity on you.

Sax.

Oh this proud Church-Gyant!

Lor.

This expiatory Sacrifice perform'd Your Honours, and your freedom are restored.

Sax.

Unparallel'd Arrogance. Draw me, some Painter, This Church Leviathan, draw him at full length; In some deep Ocean, bottomless as Hell, And wide as Worlds for his vast Bulk to move in; Paint his each breath a Storm, each Rowl a Tide, And every Gust from his impetuous Nostrils A Mountain Sea, then write Pope underneath.

Lor.

To this your Answer?

Ang.

Oh, my dearest Lord, Remember you're the Soveraign Duke of Saxony, Move not one step below your Princely Honour To save ten thousand lives.

Lor.

A divine Creature!

And worth the pawning of a Soul t'enjoy.

Aside

Ang.

Let him go on, and lodge us in a Dungeon As far removed from Light as is the Pope from Heaven; Before we'll stoop but to one abject thought, Or bend a Knee t'a Royal Father's Murderer.

Lor.

Gods, a rare Girl; a prize, an excellent prize.

Aside

Sax.

Light of my world, how charming is thy pride? But doubt not my best life, when I do ought Below the Glory of my Father's Son, Sink me, just Heaven, below my Father's Fate.

Lor.

Convey him hence. This Lady is my charge.

Sax.

Must we two part? Is this your Tyrants doom!

Lor.

Till satisfactory Atonement's made To his offended Holiness she ne'er Must see you more; but that just debt once paid, Then live and love for ever.

Sax.

Oh this Thunder-stroak!

Ang.

Farewel, my Soul, my dearest Lord farewel: Keep up your courage, guard your Royal Honour: Think not one thought below your Princely Birth To save your Princess Life, rather behold My martyr'd Blood bedew the sprinkled Sky. Rather in deaths long Night, and the dark Grave Our Fame still white our unstain'd dust we'll lay; Then move inglorious t'a new Nuptial Day.

Sax.

My Hearts best Blood, and my Souls dearest Oracle, Farewel; if Heaven e're joyns what Hell divides, We meet in Glory, or we part for ever.

Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The Conclave with the Ceremony of the Popes installment.

Card. 1.

Hail, Heaven's great Vicar, uncontroul'd disposer Of Crowns and Thrones both temporal and immortal.

Card. 2.

Thou wanderers Night-Star, and Believers Sun Of Glory.

Card. 1.

The Lord of Souls and Worlds, universal Head Of Empires, Principalities, Powers, Potentates.

Card. 3.

Thou prop and pillar of mortality.

Card. 4.

And Basis of Eternity, all hail.

Omnes.

All hail.

Card. 2.

To crown all these; Thou Servant of the Servants of the Saints, All hail.

Omnes:

All hail.

Card. 1.

By thee the humble reigns, the proud dethroned: The Loyal Proselyte fenced in with glory, And the Apostatized Rebellious Heretick Shut out from Hopes and Heaven.

Pope.

My gracious Lords, since Romes Imperial Power You to my undeserving hand have given; For my first Service to the Church and Heaven How have I merited the prize I have won, How little has my humble Nonage done? When I In Saxons Blood did my young hand embrue, 'Twas but the Snake I in my Cradle slew. But now our glorious work begins; oh Rome Our vast Herculean Labours are to come.

Card. 3.

Spoke like the Lord of Rome, your God-like self, The sole Vicegerent of Omnipotence.

Pope.

Romes sacred Head, and Romes Supremacy Is the Worlds true invincible Alcides: Those fabulous wonders Story once did give To that feign'd Hero, in our Greatness live. Error's black Sink is that Augean Stable Which Romes Divinity can only cleanse. The growling Pagan, and Fanatick Snarler The vanquish'd Dogs of Hell, the numerous Heads Of Schism and Heresie the conquer'd Hydra; And when We the rank blood of Heretick Monarchs spill, 'Tis then, tis then We the true Nemeaean Monsters kill: When to summ all, to our sole charge is given The absolute Trust, and the whole weight of Heaven The wearied Atlas we alone supply, And on Romes Neck rests the supported Sky.

The Scene shuts.

Finis Actus Secundi.

ACT III.

Pope, Lorenzo, Amiran.

Pope.

THou look'st as if thou wouldst survey my pomp, How dost thou like the Port our Greatness bears, Do we not play the Royal Masquerader nobly?

Lor.

Above all admiration. Wonder it self Must want a Tongue to praise you to the Life; And time that eats up Monuments, wants power To bound your deathless fame.

Pope.

I thank thee, honest Flatterer.

Lor.

But, Madam, You know I've loved you almost two whole years; Yet what's most wondrous, even in your embraces, Am ignorant what Goddess I enjoy. I've seen but the last page of your great life; The miraculous cause of your Sexes Transformation, Your setting out in your prodigious Race, And the first mover of your Orb of Glory, You have conceal'd from your poor Loyal Slave. Why thus reserved, or why reserved to me? Be kind at last, and satisfie my long Just curiosity. Come bless my Ears, And let me read the mighty Volume through Not that I care three Drachmas for the Story, Only I'd seem impertinently kind, And buz about the ears of what I am weary of

Aside.

To hide my passion for the Saxon Dutchess: Perhaps indeed the Story may have Love in't, And that has kept it from my longing ears: Alas, I am sensible you never came▪ A Virgin to my Arms; and you may safely And boldly own my happy Predecessors. I can't be jealous of forsaken Rivals, Since now you're only mine.

Pope,

Well, my Lorenzo, Thou hast conquer'd me. Attend, and glut thy wonder. Know I was born at Mentz in Germany,

My Virgin Name Joanna Anglica, My Quality Noble, and my Fortunes ample, My Beauty dazling; and to crown all these, My Soul was brighter than the Shrine that held it. Heaven gave me those prodigious depths of knowledge, That infinite Mass of Sense, that with disdain I left my native barbarous Germany, To search the Treasures of the Learned Athens.

Lor.

These Virtues mark'd you out your Sexes wonder.

Pope.

Yes, I already seem'd design'd for Greatness; As many Languages as Romes proud Hills My Virgin Nonage spoke. As many Arts and Sciences As the famed Stagyrite studied to inspire

Aristotle and Alexander.

The Conqueror of the Universe, were mine. So far I fadom'd into Books, Men, Manners, Reasons, Religions; I could take all Forms: The perfect Christian, or complete Philosopher; Could give the Earth and the Heavens first Foundation To Nature, or to Natures God at pleasure: Dispute on both sides, and on both sides vanquish. So fair I stood for the world's awful Thunderer, Wits Goddess from my Brain already born.

Lor.

Your Story breeds amazement and delight.

Pope.

Thus far for a Scholar. Now for a Traveller. Athens I left▪ To pay a visit to her younger, but Her fairer, and her prouder Sister Rome. And thence I past through Italy, Spain, France, Germany. Thus far I kept my Virgin Whiteness fair. Not but I had all That high Spring Tide within my youthful Veins That bursts the Adamantine Walls of Honour, And makes that Breach where Love and Ruine enter. But 'twas my pride preserved my guarded Innocence. Who yields to Love, makes but vain man her Lord: And I who had studied all the greater Globe. Scorn'd to be Vassal to the lesser world.

Lor.

But did that pride continue?

Pope.

No, Lorenzo,

The Fort was storm'd, and my proud Heart surrender'd. My Virgin-Spoils were the great Duke of Saxony's.

Lor.

How, this young Prince's Father? were you both His Mistress, and his Confessor?

Pope.

Attend me, And hear the wondrous Tale. For two long years I lived a Lady in the Saxon Court, And the Dukes private Mistress, undiscovered Both by his Dutchess, that sharp watchful Juno, And this young Prince, that subtle Mercury. During this space, by my curs'd Sexes fate, That doats on its destruction, my fond kindness Daily increas'd, grew to that height till time Had blown a spark into a conflagration. On th'other side this false ungrateful Dukes Declining Love decreas'd as fast; Degenerated to that monstrous coldness, Till like the North he froze before my Sun.

Lor.

This inhumanity was more than barbarous.

Pope.

And I rewarded him like a Barbarian. At last my Patience, Reason, Kindness, all Tired out, my slighted Love at length converted To the most mortal hate, rage and revenge. 'Twas then I left his Court.

Lor.

Bravely resolved!

Pope.

And weary of my own detested Shape, I took the habit of a man, and entred I'th' Order of the Benedictine Monks.

Page.

But why a Monk? why not t'a Nunnery? That last retreat of all distressed Sinners. Where the poor Nymph flies her false Shepherd's Arms, Mourns her neglected Sighs, and fading charms. To a Church Anthem tunes her tender Cries; Whilst like th'expiring Swan she sings and dies.

Lor.

Yes, Madam, why not to a Nunnery?

Pope.

No; that had been t' have publish'd my despair, And given th'insulting Duke too great a Triumph. Besides a Priest was th' Engine for my vengeance. Thus mask'd and Shrowded in his borrowed Russet,

Back to the Court I went, in hopes, if possible, To trace the haunts of that perfidious Duke, And learn the fatal face that had destroyed me. For well I feared some interposing Mistress Had been the cause of my Ecclipsing Lustre: And mark how fortune prosper'd my design. It happened the Dukes Ghostly Father died. And I by my kind stars, strook in, And was most fortunately made his Successor.

Lor.

Most admirable!

Pope.

Thus by being his Confessor, His Bosom, and his Soul was all my own, My long Prophetick Fears proved but too true; A beauteous Saxon Lady, called Leonora, Was the curst Ravisher of all my Joys.

Lor.

But could you keep your person and your voice Still undiscovered?

Pope.

Oh, an absolute Proteus! Bore my disguise so well. — In short, his Love To this new face, unlike my harder fate, Took every day new Fire, out-ran all Bounds, And flow'd as fast as e'er it ebb'd to Me. Whilst I by being his Priest, his Conscience Confident, Was Baud to that Intrigue that had undone me. This swell'd my Gaul into the rankest Malice, And made my Blood ferment into a fury. And then I laid the Plot for his destruction. In the Dukes name I held a correspondence With Damasus the German Heretick.

Lor.

In the Dukes name? was not the Duke himself In the Conspiracy?

Pope.

By Jove, not He.

Lor.

Was that your mighty Cause before the Conclave—

Pope.

Cheat, Artifice, all Trick. The Duke, poor Man, Knew not one syllable of the Confederacy. I treated with the German, promis'd him In the Dukes name, Rebellions, Mutinies, To break the Roman Yoke, renounce the Pope, And draw all Saxony to the Revolt. I was the Prince's private Secretary,

I writ all Letters, order'd all Returns To be directed to my hand, his Letters To th' Duke inclos'd in mine; and thus I gain'd The nicest point of the most exquisite Treason. At last to consummate my full Revenge, I fairly poyson'd him.

Lor.

Beyond all president. Never was slighted Lady so revenged., Or a lost Game so play'd.

Pope.

'Twas great, 'twas excellent. And the success rewards me with a Diadem. What nobler heights, or what sublimer Glories Than what Revenge and Treason have atchieved! Did not the Superstitious Ancients give Their universal God-head to a Traytor? When deposed Saturn from his Seat was driven, Jove, the proud Rebel, seiz'd the Throne of Heaven.

Enter Saxony, led in by Officers.

Lor.

To my fair Prisoner. This blest hour's my own.

Exit.

Pope.

Saxon, I sent for thee to let thee know, Thy Blasphemies have pierc'd th' Eternal Ear; Thy loud licentious Tongue 'gainst Us and our Unspotted Church, our ever holy Mother Would justly thrust thee a Rebellious Son For ever banish'd from the Realms of Bliss; Did not our Royal interposing Mercy Step in between thy angry God and thee.

Sax.

Gygantick Arrogance. Match me this pride,

Aside.

Since his first proud Original, the great Lucifer Led his bright Host against th' immortal Throne.

Pope.

But, Saxon, peace and safety wall thee round, Heavens and our pardon on thy knees implored, We, and our injured Church vouchsafe to look With Eyes of Pity, open our sealed Gates To a repenting Fugitive, restore Thy forfeit Crown, and no less forfeit Soul.

Sax.

And would the gilded Pageantry of Rome, That upstart Idol called a Pope Make the great Duke of Saxony

Crouch like a Slave, and bend his abject knee To his Royal Father's Murderer!

Pope.

How, bold Blasphemer!

Sax.

Yes, bolder Poysoner, to my Father's Traitor. But dares thy baseness think the Souls of Princes Form'd of that Indian Mould to kneel to Devils?

Pope.

Ha!

Sax.

Look big, strut on, yes, base-born Greatness, do; Like the black Prince of th' Air, o'erlook the world beneath thee. But let thy Conscience tell thy vaunting pride, That thinks it self the Cedar of the Grove, That thou art only a rank Church yard Cypress, Rooted and planted amongst Tombs and Charnels, You suck'd your Verdure from my Father's Grave. A Princes murder rais'd you to your Throne, And pay'd a Traytor's Wages with a Crown.

Pope.

Audacious Impudence. Poor crawling Insect; But I am too tame, and shame the Throne that holds me, I tell thee, Saxon, thou shalt groan in Chains.

Sax.

I tell thee, Priest, thou lyest, I scorn to groan. Load me with Shackles, torture me with Wracks, As numberless as are thy Crimes, rank Prelate, And know to the confusion of thy pride, My Body is as hard as is thy Conscience, And scorns to groan as much as thou.

Pope.

Silence his outrage in a Jayl, away with him.

Sax.

A Jayl! stay Slaves, usurping Tyrant tell me By what authority the power of Rome Commands the Fortunes, Crowns and Lives of Princes. And thou that falsly stylest thy self a Churchman, Darest break a Sacrament of Heaven, divorce The sacred Partner of my Joys and Me?

Pope

The Lives and Crowns of Princes, what are th•• But the Creation of our Breath! shall we Who from immediate Heaven derived have right To make or unmake Saints, want power t'enthrone Or depose Kings, dispose of Crowns above, And yet not place 'em here! command Eternity, And have mortality controul us? But do I talk, like a descending God

Stoop to converse with poor and humble dust. Dull Slaves away.

Sax.

Yet stay, descending God, And hear what Altar I intend to build thee. If 'tis decreed my short-lived Blaze of Glory, A martyr'd Prince's Life like a poor Taper Must be puffed out by that base poysonous blast, That vengeance which my fetter'd Arms want power To give, I will entail upon my Heirs. Now by my Royal murder'd Father's blood, Whose each least drop outweighs thy Soul, lewd Priest, He is a Bastard to the Blood of Saxony, That shall not cross himself but at thy name With greater dread than to face an Host of Devils; And in each morning Letany he makes, He shall place thee before Wars, Plagues and Famines; Whilst his each Bead that drops a Prayer to Heaven, Shall blend a Curse to thee. Nay, you shall hear me.

Pope.

Ye Gods, his Father's Shape, his Face, his Meen.

Aside.

Sax.

By Heavens, the very Girls through all my Saxony, That have no Weapons above their Needles, Shall in revenge of thy detested name, Limb that curst Head in their embroidered Toys, And execute that Monster in Effigie.

Pope.

His Father's Spirit too! Gods! with what courage

Aside.

He stemms that Torrent that he knows can drown him. 'Tis bold, 'tis bravely bold. Where am I going!

Sax.

Nay, by my Soul, I will bequeath my Dukedom To Painters and Engravers to revenge me. There's not that humblest Roof in all the principality Of Saxony, that shall not have thy face Drawn to the life in Hell. Nay, every Portal To a Stable, or a Jakes Shall have thy Picture drawn upon a Gibbet.

Pope.

Remove that frantick Railer from our presence, And lodge the feeble Snarler in a Dungeon. Oh stay my fluttering Soul.

Aside.

Sax.

Yes Fire and Faggot Priest, to a Dungeon: Remove me from that Gordon Pope,

That fiery scorching Dog-star of the world, His pestilential Air 's too hot to breath in.

Exit, forced out by the Officers.

Manent only the Pope and Page.

Pope.

How dost thou like this fierce, this hectoring Duke! Methinks he stands my rage like a Corinthian Colossus, bears his Brow high as that Cloud That thunders round his Head, and his unshaken Feet O'er stride a Tempest, and a Sea Beneath him. Is he not bold, is he not truly brave?

Page.

Bolder and braver than a dying Saint, And no less constant. So th'undaunted Martyr Smiles at the Stake, and triumphs in the Fire, Whilst his high Cause does his great Soul inspire. If I may speak my thoughts of him, I like Him better than his Fate.

Pope.

Oh Girl, thou hast touch'd me to the very heart. His Father's Courage, Form, his Father all; Those very eyes that stabb'd my Virgin Soul. Oh Amiran, thy Mistress is undone. I kill'd the Father, and now love the Son.

Page.

How Madam!

Pope.

Gorged with the Fountain, for the Stream I thirst. And teeming with th'unnatutal Monster burst.

Exit.

Page.

Where will this end! If she goes on, this strange And monstrous Feaver can't but end in Ruine. Oh Saxony, if thou hast such powerful Charms, Thy Eyes thy Father's Vengeance will pursue, And act what thy weak Arm could never do.

Exit.

Enter Pope alone.

Pope.

How am I lost in my impossible Desires; I die for the Duke of Saxony; Die for that very man of th' whole Creation, That in my case my fatal Circumstances

With all the mighty solid Barrs between us, I with less ease or hope can think t'enjoy, Then I could take a Lodging with a Salamander. Suppose his Virtues stood not in my way; But like his Fathers were as weak and easie To be subdued; yet I of all my Sex For ever must despair: Through all disguises He'll track the features of his Father's poysoner. But grant it possible I could deceive him, Can I deceive my old Domestick Jayler Lorenzo, that stale Rifler of my pleasures? The very man, who when I stoop'd to make him Slave to my Lust, at the same hour I made him Lord of my Life: on both sides I am undone, I starve at Shoar, and if I launch, I drown.

Enter Lorenzo and Angeline.

What have we here?

Absconding.

Angel.

Because my cruel Stars think fit to make My Lord and me your Tyrant Master's prey; Because our Lives and Crowns the dross of Princes A profane hand may reach, dare you presume, Audacious Slave, to think my Soul your prize, And talk of Love to me!

Lor.

Madam, I know Our infinite distance, own your higher Sphere. Yet Slaves may barter with an Emperor, And sell a Jewel to adorn a Crown; Madam, I do not ask your Love for Love; I bring a price to purchase your affection, Would buy your favour with your Husband's life.

Ang.

My Husband's life!

Lor.

Yes, Madam.

Pope.

Excellent.

Aside.

Lor.

You know my interest in his Holiness: 'Tis in my power to re-install your Lord

In all his Glories; bribe me with your Love And by all that Heaven which those warm smiles can give, I'll burst his Chains, dispel his gloomy Fate, Present him with his Liberty and Crown.

Ang.

And dares the Hell-hound breath this Blasphemy? No; execute your savage Tyrants doom; And lay that Royal Pile of Majesty Low as the dust. Better my Princely Lord With all the Loads of Shame and Wracks should die, Than the least spot should stain his Princess Heart.

Lor.

Horrour and Death.

Discovering the Pope.

Retire sweet Excellence, All shall be well, all shall be safe.

Puts Angeline out, and locks her into another Room.

Pope.

So my brisk Youth, I see my Favours have not Been thrown away upon you; you've improved Your Manhood, and the rich Court Pasture Agrees with your warm Blood.

Lor.

Curst accident! Now could I swear and lie, but to what purpose!

Aside.

She has caught me in my Villany.

Pope.

Why so profound a silence! Have her Charms And your new Extasies quite struck you dumb.

Lor

Madam, t'abuse you, and deny or lessen Offences, would be to increase their Guilt. And not t'incur that Blame, forgive me when I tell you, By your command I seiz'd that beauteous prize, And she has made Reprizals of my Heart.

Pope.

Oh black ingratitude! have I advanced This low-Born Infidel; preferr'd him, loved him, Only to nurse a Traitor?

Lor.

Why a Traitor! I own your favours all; own 'em with Reverence▪ And like the grateful Persian I adore That Sun, that Ligh't, and warm'd me into Life Yet man's but man; and though our humane Breasts Are fill'd; fill'd up with Honour, Gratitude,

Devotion, all those manly massy Virtues, Yet Love's that strange Mercurial part of Souls, It subt'ly creeps through all, and glides through every pore. And I should play the Hypocrite not to own I sigh and die for that illustrious Face.

Pope.

Oh, you're an Artist at a treacherous Argument. But by my Glory, by that powerful Glory That first exhaled thee from thy humble Earth, And rais'd thee up into a shining Meteor, I'll lay thee in thy native Durt.

Lor.

How, Madam?

Pope.

By all my hopes I'll do't.

Lor.

Do if you dare.

Pope.

Do you think to fright me? Yes, mistaken Slave, I will disrobe you of your shining Plumes.

Lor.

Yes, do, majestick Vanity; soar like The Bird of Jove, keep on your Airy Flight; But know High as you are, there's a vast Gulph beneath you: I am the Wax cements your borrow'd Wings, And when you melt me off, you sink and drown.

Pope.

Then you'll betray me. Are we braved and hector'd, And shall that hold my Dastard Arm? Sink Honour, Power, Life, Greatness, perish all: I'll be reveng'd or die. Who waits there? There seize that Rebel.

Enter Attendants.

They seize him.

Lor.

And dare you put in action what you threaten!

Pope.

You see I dare.

Lor.

Bid 'em withdraw.

Pope.

Withdraw.

Exeunt Attendants.

Lor.

Thus low I own your sacred vengeance just. But Mercy is the noblest Attribute Where Beauty's the Divinity. And Madam, Can you forgive me!

Pope.

••ing••n you first remember

How I have loved you. I had a little Beauty to endear you; Love I have had infinite, and truth unspeakable. And to all these The Princely Fortunes of a Roman Prelate, T'exhaust in our delights, and to summ all My Royal Bounties in one word. My Traitor shares my Crown; yet not these Bonds can hold you.

Lor.

Oh, Madam, you reproach my infidelity So well, you make my wandring Eyes look inwards, And view my hated Guilt with shame and horrour.

Pope.

All other yielding Ladies only hazard A little fame, and meet their happy Lovers On Beds of Down, but I have done more for you, Have hazarded my Honour and my Head, For with my Sex I trust you with my life: And can you play the Traitor to such Love, T' a heart so generous, and so true?

Lor.

No more. From this blest hour I'll loath that fair Inchantress, View her bright Tresses as the Snakes of Furies, And come a perfect Convert to these Arms.

Pope.

Now you are good.

Lor.

I'll shun the dangerous Quicksand. Steer'd by these Eyes, shall all my Streamers flie: And as The wandring Voyager come safe to Shoar, Pays his best Thanks to Heaven for his Return, All my Loves Incense to this Saint shall burn.

Pope.

And will you love me still!

Lor.

Not Caesar's Spoils, Nor Alexander's World shall shake my faith. Not the bright Ruler of the Day, Should he resign the Chariot of the Sun, Shall bribe one thought astray.

Pope.

You make most wonderful large promises▪ But can you keep 'em?

Lor.

Can you doubt me now!

Pope.

But Sir, the time may come When you shall think me old.

Lor.

Oh never.

Pope.

Yes. The time will come when in your restless thoughts You will look back on what I have made you lose, Then cry you 've had me long; Time and Enjoyment Have worn the pleasure dull. But could I, Could I forgoe the charming Angeline.

Lor.

Why this unkind suspicion?

Pope.

Well, I'll be generous, and believe your heart Securely mine. Yet this I am bound to say, I ought a little to excuse your frailty, When you had such a Conqueror. Envy it self Must own her fair, fair to a miracle. A prodigy of Beauty.

Lor.

Yes indeed. She's very fair.

Pope.

No wonder now that the loud spreading Glory Of the incomparable Angeline, The far famed Roman Princess charm'd her Duke From out his distant Germany. A Cause Enough to have fired a second Hannibal O'er the cold Alpes, when Rome had such a prize. Yet stay— I should be loath to draw her Picture Above the life. Lorenzo, prethee tell me, I think I do not flatter.

Lor.

Truly, Madam, Not much.

Pope.

No; she's the Mistress of those vast perfections, As Nature ne'er design'd for common Conquests: Methinks I could walk o'er that ample Field of Beauty, Survey her all, then tell me she has a Brow All Majesty, and yet withal so full Of innocent sweetness, that methinks her Looks Darting through th'awful Glories of her Eyes

Smile like an Infant in an Angel's Bosom.

Lor.

What divine Musick's this?

Aside.

Pope.

Then she has an Eye▪ So sparkling as might charm an Anchoret: In his cold Cell even Age it self inspire, And his starved Veins ferment into a Fire. And she has a Meen —

Lor.

Oh hold, my wounds are fresh, And my distemper'd Soul but newly healed: And if you still pursue this dangerous Theam, I shall relapse into my burning Feaver, And light th'unhallowed dying Fires again.

Pope.

To count up all her Charms, she has a Beauty Enough t'attract all Eyes, all Hearts, Exhaled like Morning Dew before the Sun.

Lor.

Madam, no more, you have talkt till I am undone.

Pope.

Yes, have we so; now where's your high-flown Raptures? Not the bright Ruler of the Day Should he resign the Chariot of the Sun —

Lor.

Yet stop.

Pope.

Now Vows, now Faith, where are you? where's Your Caesar's Spoils, and Alexander's World That could not bribe one thought astray.

Lor.

Dear Madam. If you have pity hold.

Pope.

Nay, you shall hear me. Oh unexampled perjury! But now Attend, and listen to your punishment.

Lor.

Be merciful.

Pope.

You shall enjoy this Princess.

Lor.

How Madam?

Pope.

By my life you shall enjoy her. Nay, do not start; know I have only acted The seeming Thunderer, and wrought you up To all this full confession of your Falshood, Have made this trial of your Faith to find you That very thing my ravish'd Soul could wish you: For now I dare with greater boldness tell you,

I love her Lord, love the great Duke of Saxony With fiercer Fires, than you his charming Dutchess. And when I give you leave to obtain your wishes, You must be just, and aid me to crown mine.

Lor.

Are you in earnest?

Pope.

By my Royalty I am. Storm on, and conquer, melt her frozen Virtue. And love and surfeit like a reveling God.

Lor.

Let me embrace your Knees. What can I do to pay you for this kindness? I am too tardy in my Gratitude: Say shall I bring the Saxon to your Bed, By Jupiter I'll drag him to your arms, And when your riotous Love, like a keen Eagle Has soared so long, till one dull Quarry tires you, Chuse out fresh Game, new Youth, new Veins to please you; Survey your Rome, look round your ample world, Mark out that face that you design for Sacrifice, By Heaven's bright Throne 'tis yours.

Pope.

Thanks, dear Lorenzo. This is extremely kind. But, oh! I love Where all Attempts, and even all hopes are vain. My Wings are pinnion'd, and my Feet are chain'd, And the broad Gulph between us is unpassable.

Lor.

Madam, 'tis true, you've a hard Game to play: But don't despair: for methinks there's something Prophetick in my working Soul that tells me I shall do wonders in your Cause, when Angeline Is my Reward; and when my active Brain Has form'd that great Minerva: (for, by Heavens He must and shall be yours;) know Madam, I'll bring you to his Arms with as much pleasure As ever I received you in my own.

Pope.

Why! this is as it should be. Why should we Who've loved and loved till we have pall'd our Appetites, Drawn off Loves Nectar to the dregs, be Slaves To sensless Constancy! Give me a loose In pleasures uncontrouled, unlimited

As Ocean Tides, whose wanton Billows roar, Rove, and roll on to the World's utmost Shore. These, these, are my Principles.

Lor.

By Heavens; and mine.

Pope.

Give me your hand; hence forward let our Wills Admit no Bounds, our Pleasures no controul: In our delights, let old Romes Glory shine, Thou the brisk Tarquin, I the wanton Messaline.

Exeunt.

The Scene the Prison, which opening, discovers variety of Hereticks in several Tortures.

Heretick 1.

Oh for a Sword, a Dagger through my heart. Oh▪

Her. 2.

Savage Tormenters, hold! oh!

Groan••

Her. 3.

Barbarian Devils! oh!

Priest.

Peace Heretick, or I shall burn that Tongue out. These lingring Torments are but lent in kindness T'inure you for damnation.

Her. 3.

Tyrant Monsters.

Priest 1.

When your Apostacy from Truth and Heaven Has light your scorching Souls, you'll find Hell hotter.

Enter the Duke of Saxony, brought in by Officers.

Sax.

Where am I brought. T' a Roman Prison. Death! Is this the place! Hold, Minister of Horrour, Why all this Cruelty?

Priest.

Ask when you feel it.

Sax.

Bold Slave; is this an answer for a Prince!

Priest 1.

Bold Prince, is this a question for a Priest? A Prince! a Pigmey; poor gay fool examine Your Circumstances, and this Place; and then Ask who's the Slave, dull Dotard, thou or I.

Sax.

Traytor, I'll tear thy heart out.

Offers at him.

Priest. 1.

Seize the Mad-man.

They seize Saxony.

Nay, do not swagger; if you are so hot, We'll cool you e'er we part.

Sax.

Gods! am I seiz'd And braved by Rascals?

1 Priest.

Insolent Earth and Ashes, Do you know who 'tis we are?

Sax.

Yes, Ruffains, wondrous well; The Popes Edge-tools, the Armour of the Beast; The scales and tail of that huge monstrous Hydra; And whensoere his boyling Venome hisses, You sting and kill: Ye rank infectious Limbs— But, Gods! that I should stoop to scold with Villains! Patience, if ever thou wert a Royal Vertue, Keep in my Gall, and make my Rage burn inwards.

2 Priest.

Bold Lord, you take a wondrous Priviledge, To talk thus rudely To the Masters of your Fate. Think where you stand.

Sax.

Yes, Priest, in the Popes Shambles; Yes, I am snared; now, Pope, thou hast me safe: The scorn of Fortune, and the sport of Villains. So when the Princely Lion's in the toil, Each Cur dares bark at him.

Enter Lorenzo.

What makes him here? How! new Tormentors still!

Lor.

No, Royal Sir. — Leave us alone.

Exeunt all but Sax. and Lor.

Sax.

What now! Speak, what new Storm? this Monster ne'er sails by, But where the stream runs Bloud.

Lor.

No more that Monster. Behold an humble Penitent at your feet.

Kneels.

Most injured Majesty, my trembling Soul Droops at your fate.

Sax.

A very excellent Mask!

Lor.

Sir, to remove all thoughts Of such Hypocrisie,—Bring in that Lady.

Angeline is brought in vail'd; which upon her entrance she pulls off.

Here be as happy as those Charms can make you.

Sax.

My sweetest Angeline!

Ang.

My Lord, my Life!

Sax.

Nay, Sir, talk on; perhaps thou mayst be honest, Since these are thy Credentials.

Lor.

Yes, my Lord, I am.

Sax.

Indeed thou shouldst be so; for sure No treacherous hand could make me such a Present: Yet I have had such wrongs, so much foul play, That I mistrust the fairest Cast of Fortune; And some new Plot may lurk even in these Arms. Speak; is there Heav'n or Hell within this Circle?

Lor.

Heav'n, Sir, if she can give it you. By all My hopes, I am your slave; my tyrant Lord, The Popes Barbarity, and your hard fortunes, have so perfectly Converted me, that as an expiation Of my past Crimes, with hazard of my life, I bring this Lady to your Arms.

Ang.

Nay, Sir, If there be truth in Oaths, he has sworn so heartily, That sure this pleasing Vision must be true.

Lor.

I must be brief; there's danger in my stay. Know then, the cruel Pope my much-loath'd Master Continues still almost inexorable; Yet though you are lodged within this dismal Scene Of Tyranny, I have prevail'd so far, That no Barbarity t'your Royal Person Shall here be offered you: Your freedom onely Denied; and that's not in my pow'r to give: And yet in time I hope t'obtain that too. For by my Soul, if all my Art and Interest Can serve you, I'll restore your clouded brightness To all its lustre; and that too, without Your least submission t'an unprincely thought, Below the honour of the Duke of Saxony.

Sax.

Let me embrace this Miracle of Goodness. This is so strangely kinde!

Enter Amiran.

Amir.

Oh, Sir, take heed! A general Murmur runs thro' all the Princes Jaylours, To know why you have broken their strict Orders,

And brought a Lady to their Royal Prisoner.

Ang.

And can there be that storm must part us now?

Lor.

Sir, though your Jaylours are too numerous To be all bribed, and Faith in multitudes Can never be reposed; yet I have found One honest Priest amongst them: him I have made mine, Made mine by gold; and though this fatal place To this fair Guest is now forbidden ground, And I must take her from you; yet at night, A dark and safer hour, By his assistance, through a private door, This Page shall bring your Princess to your Bed. Alas, this homely Palace does ill sute Your Royal Joys; yet that Love will excuse: And 'tis no little transport to my Soul, That 'tis within my power to make you happy.

Sax.

Never did Friendship equal thine; thou best—

Lor.

Nay, Sir, no thanks; 'tis more than I deserve: For the whole study of my life to serve you, Is but th'atonement of my greater guilt. But one thing, Sir, I had forgot to tell you: Take heed that you are silent in your Loves; For there are many dangerous Ears around you, And a discovery may cost Your loyal slave his head.

Sax.

Oh, fear not that.

Lor.

We must make haste, our danger calls us hence.

Ang.

Farewel, my dearest Lord.

Sax.

Till night, farewel. Night, did I say? No, dazling Brightness, no; Thy Sweets drive Sorrows, Pains, and Shades away: And in thy Arms 'tis everlasting day.

ACT the Fourth.

Enter Lorenzo and Pope. She in her womans habit.

Pope.

OH, I could hug thee for this rare designe. Never was Night so pleasant, or a Plot So artful, or so prosperous; To draw him in with the false Mask of Friendship, Then throw his Lady to him for a lure, And so to make his very Love my Bawd; Bait our false Hook with her bewitching Eyes, And burnish o'er our Brass with his own Gold. Then lodge me in his Arms for his own Wife, And in her room reap all her Bridal Joys, Without even the least shadow of suspition To damp our fierce delights. This was a Master-piece.

Lor.

Nay, Madam, I have had my Trophies too, To have his Dutchess led to my own Bed; Lodged there in expectation of her Lord, With more impatience than a dying Saint Waits for his Angel-guide. Then in his place T'approach the gloomy Shrine to the true Goddess, Tho the false Worshipper; then to embrace Her pressing Arms, devour her meeting Lips; No Sun so warm, and yet no shower so melting.

Pope.

By all that's excellent, No President e'er matcht this nights Intrigue. Never was Love on all sides so performed; Their very Ravishers, their darling Lovers, And the kinde Sacrifice flew to the fire. Oh Love, if ever thou wert blinde, 'twas there.

Lor.

But, Madam, tho the darkness of the night Deceived his Eye, how did you cheat his Ear? Pray tell me; for th'Intrigue has been so pleasant, That even the Repetition has a Charm in't.

Pope.

First then, the kinde officious Priestly Jalour, Baited with Gold like a true generous Pandar, Stood at the door t'admit my Page and me. My Page then led me softly to the Dukes Apartment; but no Tell-tale Taper light us. Muffled and maskt to his dark Bed I came; His Curtains strait at my approach flew open, As I have seen upon a shining Theatre The painted Clouds to a descending Venus. Then strait he graspt me in his burning Arms, Whilst in my Ears these eager Accents fell, My dearest, gentlest, sweetest Angeline. But I to shrowd my fatal Syrens voice, As if the danger of the place had scared me, Straight husht him silent with a trembling Kiss, The onely Rhetorick these Lips durst make: And from that hour we had no room for talking. Our onely Eloquence was our delights, Whilst our transported Raptures strook us dumb. Before the dangerous morning-dawn, the Page Return'd to bear me back, and I retired As safely as I came: left the poor Lord So extasied, the false Angelick Vision To his deluded sense appeared so fair, As left no track to shew the Fiend was there.

Lor.

Just my own Scene: No Picture more exact.

Enter Amiran.

Pope.

Oh my best Girl! how hast thou left the Duke?

Amir.

Madam, so pleased, so strangely pleased; not Glory Upon a head new crown'd, can sit more cheerful Than this nights pleasure on his heart. His Prison He has so forgot, that in his Cage he sings. And for my services, he sweetens me With such soft words, and with such tender thanks He placed this sparkling Diamond on my finger, That Treason sure was never so rewarded.

Pope.

But how his Dutchess!

Amir.

Much in the same vein.

Onely her deeper stream more silent flows: She speaks not, but she thinks as much as he. Her generous Lord, His Gift was Diamonds, but hers were Rubies; She onely paid me with a Blush, and left me.

Pope.

Well, my Lorenzo, this soft Feast of Pleasure Has been too full of wonder and delight, For the short Riot of one Night t'exhaust. Let us resolve then to play out the Game Like wanton Revellers, glut our fierce desires; And when this old Intrigue grows stale, and tires, We'll seek out new.

Lor.

Agreed, my Oracle.

Pope.

Saxon, to night, Once more thy Venus in her Cloud descends: Oh for a bowl of Cleopatra's Philter, To heighten our next meeting Joys. How bravely did the wise Egyptian Dame Dissolve a Kingdoms Ransome in a Pearl, To treat her darling Anthony, t'inspire To his drein'd Veins new life, and unknown fire! Oh, Egypt's glorious Queen! Shall I less active be? my Bloud's as warm, And I am as brisk, as young and proud as she. Cells, Cloysters, Covents, Altars, Temples, Shrines, With their vast hoards, are all my Golden-mines. Nay, to sum all Rome's infinite Mass in one, All the mad Zeal of the blinde World's our own. These shall my Riots, these my Pomp supply; Shall I want Love, who have all this Wealth to buy?

Lor.

This is so glorious, so divinely great, Old Rome ne'er deifi'd, nor the new Rome E'er canoniz'd a Heroine more illustrious.

Pope.

If the cold Bones of a dull Roman Saint Can sleep in Treasures, whilst his senseless Marble Sweats in embroider'd Gems and moulten Gold, Shall my warm Bed and warmer Lovers want it? No!

I'll melt the Crown from the gilt Martyrs head, And ransack even his Tomb t'adorn my Bed. I'll rifle Saints to make my Lovers shine, And Steal from Heav'n to make the Joy divine. Lovers, by Lucifer, I'll not want one day, Whilst the rich Church shall both procure and pay.

Lor.

Most excellent!

Pope.

Now could I laugh at those Dull pious dying fools, who in despair To buy Eternity, make the Church their Heir. The bigot Fools are kind in a good hour; There's nothing like a Pope for an Executour. True, the poor slaves die Saints, so let 'em die, Whilst we enjoy the Paradise they buy; Leaving that Wealth which we in Lust consume, They are Proselytes to Heaven, but Bawds to Rome.

Exeunt.

The Scene changes to the Prison.

Two Hereticks.

1 Her.

Bernardo!

2 Her.

Ha! more Priests, more Torturers! Oh!

1 Her.

H'st, I am a Friend.

2 Her.

A Friend to poor Bernardo! Nay, then thou art a wretched thing indeed: For nought but misery dares link with me.

1 Her.

Indeed thou art i'th' right. No wonder nothing But Cruelty and Torments fill this place; For here Religion reigns, that pious Cormorant; Religion, that devouring Savage reigns: Yes, we are Hereticks, Those bugbear monstrous things, design'd for slaughter; All other lesser Crimes Rome can forgive, As Whoredoms, Thefts, Rapes, Murders! (alas, They are petty venial sins.) Does not the Bawd Keep open shop in Rome, pays but her yearly Toll To's Holiness's sacred Treasury, And takes a License for the Trade she holds.

The bloudy Murderer runs but to a Church, And 'tis his Sanctuary; the Gates flie open, While the generous Priest, like his kind Guardian Saint, Views the fresh Scarlet on the Cut-throats face, And hugs his darling Brother. But poor Heresie, That mortal, capital, unpardonable, crying sin, Must never be forgotten: Rome's Jayls, and Dungeons, Wheels, Wracks, Stakes, Gibbets, are for Hereticks made.

2 Her.

Now by my starving Veins and aking Bones, How faithfully thou play'st the Painter.

1 Her.

What think'st thou of a Pope?

2 Her.

Why he's a Horse-leech Without a tail; the Bloud he sucks, runs through him: He sucks and sucks, but never fills. But, Heav'ns! What was the Crime that brought me to this place? 'Tis true, I heard a Priest most vilely cant, And tell me how by Miracle A certain Roman Martyr bore his head Under his arm three miles: And 'cause I could not Believe him, but provoked with the rank nauseous fable, In a most honest hearty bluntness, told him, The pious Legend lyed; For that, that onely Crime, I am condemn'd untryed to endless Chains, And Torments doom'd, ne'er to see light agen.

1 Her.

Not to see light agen! But how if I proposed A means for an Escape.

2 Her.

For an Escape!

1 Her.

But 'tis with wondrous hazard, infinite danger—

2 Her.

Danger! no matter: Bring me to a Lottery But with one Chance for Liberty, Tho to ten Blanks, and every one for death, I'd thrust my hand into the fatal Pile As cheerfully as Misers grasp their Gold.

1 Her.

Know then, by a Conspiracy betwixt Some of our fellow-sufferers, this night, This dead dark hour, the Prison's to be fired—

2 Her.

Most excellent!

1 Her.

And by this happy Plot

'Tis possible some of us may escape. At worst, we can but burn; and better end A life at once, than to lie here immured, Preserved for Wracks, and kept an Age in dying. Bernardo, look, yon dauning streaks of light Tell us the happy Train has taken fire.

2 Her.

Let us retire and wait the blessed minute. Shine out, bright Sun of comfort; either save Our wretched lives, or light us to a grave.

Exeunt.

The third Scene is the Duke of Saxony's Bed-chamber within the Prison.

Enter Saxony in his Night-gown, as newly risen from Bed.

Sax.

Good Heav'n! what misty damp disturbs my sleep? Sulphur and Pitch? What poysonous smoaky stench Offends my aking Eyes?

Within.

Fire! fire! fire!

Sax.

Horrour and Death! the place is all on fire! Awake, my Angeline, look up, and see Danger and Death surround us.

Within.

Fire! fire! fire!

Pope.

[Starting out of bed.]

Hell and Perdition! what misfortune's here!

Sax.

By Heav'ns, we are almost circled in with flames! And the doors lockt, fast barr'd.

Knocking to get out.

Jaylours, Priests, Torturers! Open the door, make haste, or we shall perish.

Within.

[From several voices.]

1.

Fire!

2.

Plots and Treason!

3.

Bar the Gates: secure The Prisoners, let 'em burn, rather than flie.

Sax.

The Flames increase, and we are pent in with Ruine. Unlock the door; deaf harden'd Devils, hear us.

Knocking.

Open the door, make haste, or else we die.

Within.

Die, and be damn'd.

2.

Fire! Water!

Sax.

Oh my dear Angeline, we are betray'd:

A strange prophetick horrour tells my Soul That we are mew'd up for sacrifice.

The Ghost of the old Duke of Saxony rises with a burning Taper in his hand.

Look, look!

Here the Ghost with his Taper touches a train of fire above him, which immediately writes upon the Wall, in Capital letters in a bloudy fire, the word MURDER; which continues burning some time.

My Angeline, my Royal Father's Ghost! See Murder, Murder! Oh the voice of Bloud! Stay, stay, thou Royal Harbinger of Fate.

The Ghost sinks.

Oh, Angeline, the hand of Heaven's against us.

Pope.

Adored dear Devil, save me but this once.

[aside.] kneels.

Sax.

That murder'd sleeping Shade wakes from Deaths arms To call us to his own untimely Grave. Now, Pope, thou and thy black Colleagues of Hell, Compleat their impious Vengeance.

Pope.

By all that's damn'd, I am lost: This Messenger Of Hell was sent for me. Cut off thus early! Oh the senseless Devil, Thus to play Booty 'gainst himself!

Aside.

Mistaken, dull infernal fools, I have not yet Sate long enough on Rome's Imperial Throne To do you half the service of a Pope.

Sax.

Witness, good Heav'n, for my own life I fear not; But thy hard fate torments my bleeding Soul. If we must burn, thus arm in arm we'll die.

Embracing.

Speak to thy Love; why speaks not my dear Angeline? There needs no silence in our Kisses now.

Pope.

Ruin'd! betray'd! undone! If I but speak, He'll find my Screech-owl's voice; and if he sees me, He'll know my fatal face, and tear my throat out. Speak or not speak, I burn, if there be God's

Aside.

Curse on your blazing Thrones. No Ditch-born Hag Was ever doom'd to such a fate as I am. By Hell, I scorch already: Fire and Aetna! Traytors, Priests, Monsters. Here, open the door.

Knocking.

Sax.

Ha!

Pope.

Now could I part with all my Keys of Heav'n, But for one Picklock to these Iron-bars.

aside.

Make haste, ye tardy Dogs, here's Gold to pay you. Still deaf, ye slaves! a Jewel worth a Kingdom, To bribe you for a Key!

Sax.

Ravens and Vultures!

Pope.

I cannot, dare not burn. Dull drowsie Villains—

Sax.

What art thou? speak, infernal Fiend, what art thou?

seizing her.

Speak, Succubus, what Gibbet hast thou robb'd For that loath'd form, to stain my sacred Bed, And damn my cheated Soul!

Pope.

Inquire no farther; I will not speak.

Sax.

Speak, or I will tear thy Soul out.

Pope.

Save your own. Flie, or we burn.

Enter Priests and Lights.

Sax.

By Heav'ns, the very form Of my dead Father's Poysoner!

1 Priest.

What's here!

2 Priest.

A Whore!

3 Priest.

A Whore!

Sax.

Oh, Gentlemen, secure that Hag, that Sorceress; The very Witch that light this Fatal Fire, And brought the Brand from her own Hell to kindle it.

4 Priest.

The Lady I had three hundred Crowns to Bawd for, And her Protection may be worth three thousand.

1 Priest.

Take her, and burn the Witch.

Pope.

O save me! save me!

4 Priest.

Hold, Brothers, let me answer for this Lady: She is my Mistriss and my Charge; and with My Bloud I'll justifie her Innocence.

Pope.

Good, pious, honest, tender-hearted Father, This Diamond speak my thanks.

Gives him a Ring.

1 Priest.

A Bona Roba.

2 Priest.

One of our Brothers friends! nay, then all's well.

3 Priest.

An honest Girl of yours? that name protects her.

Sax.

Protect her! how! protect the greatest Traytress That ere disgraced a Jayl, or shamed a Gibbet. Secure her, seize her.

4 Priest.

Stop that mad mans mouth; I'll stake my life to vindicate this Lady.

1 Priest.

Enough, enough; fie, let the Lady pass.

2 Priest.

Madam, your slaves.

3 Priest.

Make room there for this Lady.

Pope.

Ten thousand Saints reward you for this kindness.

1 Priest.

We are your Vassals.

Ʋshering her to the door.

2 Priest.

Madam, your faithful Servants.

Pope.

Such an Escape, kind Fate—

Exit, led out by her friend the fourth Priest.

Sax.

Horrour unspeakable! What Monster has this night slept in my arms? Do I live, speak, move, walk? Is yon your Heav'n, Your Earth I tread on, or your Air I breath in? And is this load of Nature Flesh and Bloud? Or is it all a Dream, or am I chang'd To some incarnate Devil, doom'd to walk Deaths burning plains, converse with Imps and Goblins, Tread the dark Mazes of eternal night, And sleep with Hags and Succubas. Oh the vast Feavour of my burning Bloud! Some Ocean quench me, or some Mountain swallow me. Not Christian slaves, wrapt up in Pitch, and light Like burning Tapers to the Savage Nero, Not Hercules in his invenom'd shirt, Nor Lucifer at his first plunge in Hell, Felt half the Fires my raging Entrails swell.

Exeunt.

The Scene changes to a private Apartment of the Pope.

Enter Pope, Lorenzo, and Amiran.

Pope.

Oh my Lorenzo, I am undone for ever!

Lor.

How, Madam! Heav'n forbid.

Pope.

Sleeping this night In my dear Saxons arms, by some curst accident

The scene of our delights was set on fire. Straight from his Bed the frighted Saxon leapt, And thunder'd in my Ears, Wake, wake, my Angeline! Oh 'twas a fatal sound; not the last Trumpet Shall wake the Damn'd to greater pains than mine. Curst be that hour; the blazing Fire-brands, like A Taper to a wandring Midnight-Ghost, Served but to shew the Fiend these Eyes discover'd.

Lor.

Discover'd! Death and Furies.

Pope.

Not th'enraged Oedipus Alarm'd from his incestuous Mothers Bed, Raved half so loud as he. But to sum all, The Terrours of this hideous night, The ghastly form of the old poyson'd Saxon, Burst thro' the Marble-floor, and with a Torch Dipt in the sulphurous Lake, from whence he rose, In distinct Characters of Bloud and Fire, Writ MURDER in the blazing Roof above us.

Lor.

Oh you distract me! How got you off? How could you scape with life?

Pope.

By Miracle! Had not the entring Jaylours saved me, He had torn my heart out.

Lor.

But, dear Madam, tell me: The Treason was too plain. But do you think He did suspect or guess the real Traytress? There, there's the fatal point.

Pope.

Oh I have but too much reason to believe it; For at the horrour of these killing Eyes, He cri'd, The Features of my Fathers Poysoner. And tho betwixt his wilde distracted senses He left me with the name of Witch, Fiend, Sorceress, And what else other odde fantastick forms His wandring Rage could shape; I am not safe.

Lor.

No, you are undone: for if he lives, you die. Should tatling fame but whisper you are a woman, 'Twill make the scorching world too hot to hold you.

Pope.

But, my Lorenzo, I'll prevent that danger;

For I am resolved he dies. Yet, Gods! 'tis hard, 'Tis very hard to kill the man I love; But if he keeps a tongue, I lose a head. No, his invenom'd Lungs breathe Plagues, and I Must root his heart up to dislodge that Poyson. Peace, foolish Love, and be for ever dumb; I sit on Rome's great Throne, a Seat too bright To hazard for the Pleasures of a Night. Saxon, thy life I cannot, must not save; Oh, I must send thee to thy Father's Grave: For know my Love must be my glories slave.

Lor.

Spoke like Rome's Monarch! This a Scepter'd hand And a Crown'd head should be.

Pope.

But is it not enough His Father I have poyson'd, stain'd his Bed, Himself imprison'd, and to stab his Soul, His dearest Princess thou hast both whored and ravisht; But to all these accumulated Cruelties I must at last adde his own murder too? Is it not barbarous!

Lor.

Death, not at all: For now you are kinde, and put him out of pain. Besides, your life and Crown's at stake; let that Inspire your Soul. Does not th'invading Conquerour that leads His thousands and his thousands out to battel, To scale the Walls of some Imperial City, Fill up a Ditch with his own martyr'd slaves, To make a Bridge to Glory. If their glory Can murder thousands, shall yours shrink at one Poor gasping slave?

Pope.

Thou art an excellent Oratour, I stand confirm'd; but whilst I stay to talk, Danger grows big and terrible. Here, Amiran, I'll leave the Charge to thee: Take these three thousand crowns, and steal 'em into The hand of that good conscientious Priest, My honest Bawd that saved my threatn'd life.

Thou mayst act safely for me; for he knows Not who, nor whence thou art. Tell him, his business Is onely to give the mad wilde Saxon Duke A sober sleeping Pill: He'll understand thee.

Amir.

Madam, your great Commands must all be sacred; And my whole life's too short for my obedience: Yet pardon me when I have one Grace to beg, That you'd be pleased t'excuse my trembling hand From this too cruel office.

Pope:

How, my Girl! A fit of Conscience! fie, let not that check thee. Shrink not to serve me now. Do this, and make me thine entire for ever.

Amir.

Well, Madam, I am your slave.

Pope.

Thanks, my kinde Amiran. Make haste, my Girl.

Amir.

I flie t'obey you.

Exit Amir.

Pope.

So! Poor Saxony, thy Fate rides Post. Well, if there's any thing in the airy Dreams Of Faith, Religion, Piety, Things which poor little unambitious Church men Have nothing else to do but to believe in, Whilst we the great and glorious Mitred heads Have other work and other game to mind. They say that Providence to suffering Innocence, Gives Crowns and Paradise. Then, Saxon, thou Art happy, and I kinde; and if Eternity Has, to wrong'd Virtue, Constellations given, Why should I stick to send the man I love to Heav'n? Or why should snarling fools at bloud repine, When Death's the Furnace does their Gold refine? 'Tis Wounds and Death that Heav'n with Stars does paint, And the kind Murderer translates the Saint.

Exeunt.

ACT the Fifth.

The Scene the Prison.

Amiran alone.

Amir.

HIther I come to bring a Soveraign head, A Soveraign Cure, a sober sleeping Pill; I, that's the word. Poor Saxony! thy Royal Father murder'd, Thy dearest Princess ravisht, and to make up The most unnatural monstrous mass of Cruelty, Thy Fathers Poysoner, and thy Fathers Whore, Lodged in thy Bed. Oh thou'rt a true Original Of unexampled Misery: No Tragedy Ere equall'd thine. Yet after all, this most Wrong'd Prince must bleed, and I must be his murderer. Oh my faint Arm! Oh my Barbarian Mistriss! Well, I remember I have served thy Lust, My breast the Cabinet to all thy Whoredoms; Nay, like an Usurer to the Trust thou hast lent me, I've play'd the Bawd t'increase 'em. All these Ills I never trembled at; but oh, there's something In Murder so beyond a Female Villain, As my Soul startles at the thought. But why, Why do I play the foolish Crocodile, And mourn where I must kill?

Enter Saxony and Carlo.

—Yonder he comes! Let me retire a while, and borrow strength For this dire Execution.

Absconds.

Sax.

Oh my wrong'd Angeline, What have I done? by what Infatuation, What damn'd Illusion led, have I a Monster Claspt to my breast? or has some Rival-God, In malice to thy happier envyed Lord, Caught thee t'his Heaven t'outshine yon dazling Stars, And left that changeling Demon in my Arms! I shall run mad.

Amir.

Alas, poor injur'd Prince!

Sax.

Tell me, ye Powers Infernal, I conjure you By all the Pleasures of Revenge; And thou curst Pope, thou greater blacker Devil, Tell me by what Inchantments, Spells, Drugs, Minerals, That savage Whore you lodged within my Arms; And to make up that Monster more than execrable, Lent her thy own infernal face to blast me.

Amir.

Oh I can hold no longer! Ye Gods, That so much Excellence should be created For so much Ruine! Pity, Conscience, Love, I know not which thou art: But on the suddain My dire resolves are stagger'd.

Sax.

Art thou here! Oh my young Pandar! ye kinde Powers, I thank you. Thou unfletcht Imp, thou early-lighted brand Of everlasting fire, tell me what Fury Thy impious hand lodged in my Bed last night; Tell me, for I will know.

Amir.

Oh, Sir, no more. I cannot, must not, will not, dare not tell you.

Sax.

Not tell me! Now by thy own Mother-Hag That bore thee in a Ditch, fed thee with Scorpions, Swath'd thee with Adders, suckled thee with Bloud, And dipt thee young in Hell, Speak quickly, or I'll tear the cursed Secret From thy impostum'd heart; speak, or I'll kill thee.

Amir.

Yes, do, Sir, and I'll thank you for the kindness; For if I speak, I must kill you: and trust me, I have that sense of your unhappy sufferings,

That I had rather die my self than be Your Murderer.

Sax.

And art thou then in earnest? Come, prithee speak; I was to blame to chide thee: Be not afraid; speak but the fatal truth, And by my hopes of Heav'n I will forgive thee. Out with it, come; now wouldst thou tell me all, But art ashamed to own thy self a Bawd: 'Las, that might be thy Fathers fault, not thine. Perhaps some honest humble Cottage bred thee, And thy ambitious Parents poorly proud, For a gay Coat made thee a Page at Court, And for a plume of Feathers sold thy Soul; But 'tis not yet, not yet too late to save it.

Amir.

Oh my sad heart!

Sax.

Come, prithee speak; let but A true confession plead thy penitence, And Heav'n will then forgive thee as I do.

Amir.

But, Sir, can you resolve to lend an ear To sounds so terrible, so full of fate, As will not onely act a single Tragedy, But even dis-joynt all Natures Harmony, And quite untune the world? for such, such are The Notes that I must breathe.

Sax.

Oh my dear Murderer, Breath 'em as cheerfully as the soaring Lark Wakes the gay Morn. Those dear sweet Airs that kill me, Are my new nuptial Songs. My Angeline Has been my first, and Death's my second Bride.

Amir.

Know then, th'Enchantress that these two last nights Slept in your bosome, was your Fathers Poysoner.

Sax.

Riddles and Death! what mystick sounds are these?

Amir.

That Sorceress that in a borrow'd shape Usurps Rome's sacred Throne, was the dire Fiend.

Sax.

Ha!

Amir.

Oh Sir, I read that lightning in your eyes That tells me, I have set your Soul on fire. Break, break, great heart, thou'rt too much lost to live,

And for the last, the greatest fatal stab; For I must tell you all. That lust-burnt Hag Began her game with your unhappy Father. You may remember in the Saxon Court, A fatal Beauty call'd Joanna Anglica, That Syren first defiled your Fathers Bed, And then by Jealousie transform'd t'his Priest, And by Revenge t'his Murderer—his bloud, His Royal bloud she doubly, doubly poyson'd.

Sax.

Thunder and Earthquakes!

Amir.

And not t'end there neither, The bestial lust of her incestuous Fires Traced your dead fathers Beauties in your Eyes; And the same sulphurous Mine that blew his soul up, Was light to sacrifice the Martyr'd son.

Sax.

A Whore, a Poysoner! nay, a Fathers Whore, And Fathers Poysoner! Oh my bloated Soul! O most unnatural doubly damn'd Hyena, Mixt in my Fathers shame! Oh horrour, horrour! Oh my vast wrongs, destruction, ruine, death! Strike thick, ye darts of fate. My poor dear Angeline. Ha! spight of all my pains, that Name has life in't. Say, Boy, how fares my Angeline? Tho millions Of torturing Furies gore this bleeding heart, I know thou'lt say she's well, and lives unhurt, Sleeps innocent, and in her golden slumbers She little dreams what numberless distractions Surround her wretched Lord.

Amir.

Alas, Sir, —

Sax.

Ha!

Amir.

The saddest part of all my killing story Is yet to come. By the same Stratagem That has deceiv'd her Lord, was your poor Princess, By false Lorenzo's lust, enjoy'd and ravisht.

Sax.

Now all the Plagues of him that sold his God, Reward the execrable Dog. My Angeline, My dearest, sweetest, and once brightest Angeline! Ye Tyrant Powers, ye everlasting Torturers,

That made mankind for ruine; end me quickly, Oh bury me like the rebellious Gyants, Loaded with Mountain-piles, for I shall rave, Rave to that height, till all my gasping Pangs, My rowling Tears, and my loud bellowing Groans, Burst out like Cataracts, enough to deafen The very Thunder of my angry Gods. Yet hold, I have some business to dispatch, Before my Eye-balls burst. Say, Boy, canst thou Oblige a very wretched thing, and bear My dying sighs to that dear martyr'd Innocence?

Amir.

My Lord, I can.

Sax.

And wilt thou be so kind? Nay, thou'lt be kinder yet: for thou'rt a Convert, A gentle honest Boy. But oh too late! Speak, is it in thy power to bless my Eyes With one last view of those dear beauteous Ruines, Before we part and die?

Amir.

My Lord, it is; Your Princess is my Charge: And your own servant here, by my instructions, Shall haste and bring her to your arms this minute.

Sax.

Heav'ns brightest Diadem crown thee for this goodness.

There Amiran whispers with Carlo, and gives him a Key.

Flie, Carlo, flie, and as thou bringst her hither, Repeat the dismal Tale of all our Woes. But oh, 'tis terrible, 'tis wondrous terrible For such chast ears, yet she must hear it all. Leave not one tittle that may wing her Soul For its last flight; for, Carlo, she must die. The softest heart that yon celestial fire Could ever animate, must break and die. We are both too wretched to outlive this day; And I but send thee as her executioner.

Carlo.

I flie to obey you, Sir.

Sax.

Stay, Carlo, stay. Why all this haste to murder so much Innocence? Yet thou must go. And since thy tongue must kill The brightest form th'inamour'd Stars can ere Receive, or the impoverisht World can lose, Go, Carlo, go; but prithee wound her Soul As gently as thou canst: and when thou seest A flowing shower from her twin-Orbs of light All drown the faded Roses of her Cheeks; When thou beholdst 'midst her distracted groans Her furious hand, that feeble fair Revenger, Rend all the mangled Beauties of her Face, Tear her bright Locks, and their dishevell'd pride On her pale neck that ravisht whiteness fall; Guard, guard thy eyes, for, Carlo, 'tis a sight Will strike Spectators dead.

Exit Carlo.

Amir.

I fear there needs No study now to be that Beauties Murderer.

Sax.

How, Boy!

Amir.

The bloudy Pope, frighted last night At her discovered face, has doom'd you both T'eternal silence by a Bowl of poyson.

Sax.

Damnation!

Amir.

These three thousand Crowns were given me To bribe your Priest to mix your fatal drugs, And I am afraid her draught's already past.

Sax.

Now for a Bait so strong might catch the Devil! I'd angle with this black rank Whore she-Pope; I'd float the Witch upon the burning Lake, And when the hungry Fiend bob'd up to gorge her, I'd with her Crosier stick him through the throat, And tug him up from Hell. Sport for a God! Oh the wilde forms of my unruly Soul!

Enter Angeline with her hair dishevelled, attended by Carlo.

Thou beauteous pile of everlasting Woe, Approach thy wretched Lord.

Ang.

Where art thou, Carlo? Lend me thy hand, and guide me to my Love; For these benighted eyes are so or'edrown'd in tears, That I am all dark, and cannot finde my way.

Sax.

So have I seen a Cloud all gilt with light; But oh ye Pow'rs that could those Heav'ns benight! What was her day, if she can set so bright?

Ang.

Oh my lov'd Lord, This ruin'd thing comes to thy feet to die.

Sax.

If thou must die, draw neer, my lovely Martyr; Come to this Breast, and make these arms thy Monument.

Ang.

In those lov'd arms! Oh stay, where am I going? Stand off, my Lord, stand off. Those dear embraces are too blest a circle For such a sullied bloated thing as I am.

Sax.

And can I be more miserable still! Ah can those setting beams of light withdraw Their last kind warmth from thy expiring Lord!

Ang.

No, my dear Life, we must embrace no more. Should I approach those charming Fires too nigh, There's so much vital heat in thy lov'd bosom, That I shall live, live a polluted Monster, And make the blushing world asham'd to own me. Live with my load of shame! No, cruel Pow'rs, Hear my last Prayer, and give my murder'd Honour And me one Grave.

Sax.

Oh thou bright falling Star, Never was Love nor Injuries like thine! Poor ravisht sweetness!

Ang.

Ravisht! Oh ruine, fate, destruction, Death! These Eyes, these Lips, oh Heav'ns, this sacred Bosom, Once the blest Throne of thy transported Joys, Made a loath'd Monsters Prey! But oh ye Powers, This is not half my Scene of Woe! Alas, The bleeding Lucrece and the mourning Philomel Could plead as much as this: But I am a wretch A thousand times more monstrously deform'd. Oh my vast Wounds! there's that wide breach of ruine

In this one breast, will let in death enough To break both hearts.

Sax.

Together let 'em break.

Ang.

Oh my wrong'd Lord, When to my fatal Bed th'Adulterer came, But oh that hour be blotted from eternity! I harmless, languishing, expecting Innocence, Met the foul Traytour, kist, embraced him, loved him, Around his neck my longing arms I threw; For I was kinde, and thought, my Lord, 'twas you. Oh horrour, horrour, unexampled horrour!

Sax.

Name it no more. Why did the eternal Being Create a form so perfectly divine, The miracle of Story, Ages, Worlds, So far above her Sex upon a Pyramid Of Trophies fixt like a transparent Glory, And now all at one sudden blast of Lightning To strike the Master-piece of their Creation, Thrown headlong from her Pinacle of Honour, And dash the shining Christal Globe to pieces? Blush, blush, ye Gods, blush till your glowing Skies Anticipate the worlds last Funeral-pile, And scorching Nature burn and rave as I do.

Ang.

Methinks I see thro' your distracted eyes A load of Fate weigh down your drooping Soul; And is it all for your poor Angeline! Be comforted; what tho I come to die, 'Tis but a short farewel to this base world, Till we shall meet in purer Joys above.

Sax.

Ah no, my Angeline; when thou art dead, I am afraid my Wrongs so high will rise, Make such Complaints against my angry Stars, Till in despair I curse the Author of my wretched Being; Then in my wilde Apostate fury die, And never meet thee more.

Ang.

O fie, my Lord, Take heed, take heed of this unjust despair;

Oh pray to Heav'n, and think that I am there. Oh do not tax the great Omnipotence Of ought unjust; when they deposed us here, No doubt 'twas but to crown us brighter there.

Sax.

Yes, ye great Powers, make us amends in Heav'n; For we have had but little Justice here.

Aug.

Oh my dear Love, I die. Now take me, take me to thy dearest arms: You need not be afraid t'embrace me now, For I shall die, and be all white agin, And you may love me then without a sin. In this warm Bed a spotless Martyr lay, For Death's kind hand wipes all my stains away.

Dies.

Sax.

What dismal Planets reign'd when I was born? Planets, Fiends, Furies! These were th'ascendant Lords at my creation That abhorr'd Night: when my unlucky Parents Mixt their unhappy Loves to form this Being, No smiling Star peep'd forth. But where's this Ravisher, this Pope, young Fairy? Revenge, ye Gods, revenge! Is there that word In all the dear Records of Fate for me? Oh could I but escape from this dire place, And meet once more that Monster face to face!

Amir.

My Lord, you shall.

Sax.

How, Boy! say that again.

Amir.

Sir, this Gold Design'd to buy your Bloud, shall pay your Ransome: With this I'll purchase your deliverance. Thus secretly releast, be it your art To strike your Dagger to the Traytors heart.

Sax.

Now art thou kinder than a giving God, And even preventst my Prayers. From thy bright Heav'n, Blest Saint, look down, and let thy well-pleas'd Ghost Smile at the Victim I intend to make thee. And the slow pangs of his sad heart forgive, Who for thy Vengeance must thy Fate outlive.

Exeunt.

Scene the Last.

Enter a Rabble of Romans.

From within.

A Procession! a Procession! A Procession!

Rom. 1.

Well Neighbours, since his Holiness is pleased to give us a Holy-day, let us improve it, and make the best use on't, that is, go to the Tavern, and be down-right drunk.

Rom. 2.

I, Neighbour, for I never knew any other use of a Ho∣ly-day, but first to go to Church, and then be drunk.

Rom. 1.

You make a just interpretation: but here lies the que∣stion, whether we shall sit in the Tavern like Sots, and not be drunk till night, or go and be presently drunk, then go home, beat our Wives, and sleep an hour, then rise and be drunk again before Sun-set, this I take to be the improvement of the day.

Rom. All.

I, I, 'tis, 'tis.

Rom. 2.

But heark you, Neighbour, do you never go to Church?

Rom. 1.

Positively, no; my reasons I will render. First, you do not take me for the least Fool amongst you.

All.

No, no!

Rom. 2.

Nor the least Knave, Neighbour's.

All.

No, No.

Rom. 1.

Then I conclude I'll never pray at all, whilst we we have such Shoals of Church Men to do it for us, as Cardinals, Monks, Abbots, Priors, and a thousand Orders more; and with all these Holy Men about us, 'tis impossible we should be damn'd, Neighbours.

Rom. 2.

Ay, but, Neighbour, you ought to help at a dead lift, 'tis hard trusting to other mens prayers.

Rom. 1.

Why, don't I pay for it, I tell thee it goes against the grain to pray and pay too, I'll not do't not I, and if I be damn'd, at their peril be it.

Rom. 2.

Then I perceive, Neighbour, you are in a desperate condition.

Rom. 1.

Not at all, for always when I pay the Priest his du∣ties I always take an acquittance, and those Acquittances I take as a Passport to slip me by Purgatory into the other world.

Rom. 2.

But which of those other worlds do you think to go to?

Rom. 1.

So I 'scape Purgatory, no matter which.

Rom. 2.

But I am afraid this will not do your Work, Neighbour!

Rom. 1.

Then let the Church 'bate me my Peter-pence, and I'll pray for my self: and ne'er trouble them, and that I think is fair.

All.

Aye, Aye!

Rom. 1.

Besides that's taking the bread out of the Priests Mouths, and that's no other than Sacrilege, 'tis plain Intrench∣ment.

Rom. 3.

Intrenchment! what's Intrenchment!

Rom. 1.

Are you such a fool you don't know what Intrench∣ment means, why Intrenchment is a hard word, and you all know what a hard word is,

All.

I, I.

Rom. 1.

Why, 'tis medling with what we have nothing to do with, which is no better than picking ones Pocket; why Neigh∣bour, you keep a reverend Brandy Shop, and would not you take it ill if a Cardinal should set up, and sell Brandy by you? In troth, he'd go nigh to break you.

Rom. 3.

I dod, would he?

Rrm. 4.

I'll undertake, if a Cardinal should sell Brandy, he'd be the richest man in all Rome.

Rom. 1.

I'll undertake then I'll find you one shall do't.

Enter the Duke of Saxony with Attendants, bearing in the dead body of the Dutchess of Saxony.

Rom. 2.

But see that which you call'd a Procession looks more like a Funeral.

D. Sax.

Oh, worthy Romans, here behold a sight Will fill your Eyes with Tears, and Hearts with Grief; And if this sight alone shall fail to move, For Deaths are common in the Stretes of Rome, Yet will the Story, when unfolded, strike You all with sudden horrour and amazement.

Rom. 1.

Dad, he speaks well.

Sax.

Say worthy Roman's▪ If freely you'll afford your Charity

To an afflicted Prince that prest with griefs And injuries, lays by his Honours And Titles to become your humble Suppliant.

Rom. 2.

Our humble Suppliant.

Sax.

Nor do I doubt, but when you have heard my Story, You will afford your pity and revenge.

Rom. 1.

Well Sir, I understand you are a Prince, and that your good Lady is dead, and you'd have us make her alive again. We can do you no good in it; 'tis not every man that lives in Rome can do that Job, but if you'll speak to the Pope, or one of his Cardinals they'll do it for a word speaking.

Sax.

And is this all the attention you can give me! Oh, Rome, how is thy wonted Braveness changed, Since thy Inhabitants at call of Anthony Flock'd round the Body of their murder'd Caesar; With Tears they wash'd his Wounds, And mixt a Deluge with his gushing Blood; Then starting from the Corps with noble rage, Revenge and Justice through the Streets they cryed. Oh, Romans, you will live to see that day When from your Roofs your Daughters will be dragg'd, Their Virgin Innocence abused with dust, And thus brought home a lamentable Spectacle. Thus shall your Wives and Daughters all be ravished, Dishonour'd, Poyson'd.

Rom. 2.

Why, has the Princess been so serv'd!

Rom. 1.

So it seems, if you'll believe a dead woman.

Sax.

If this dear Beauty, born of Noble Blood, By Wedlock planted in a Prince's Bosom, Could not escape from Treason, Rapes and Death, How shall your Wives, your Daughters, and your Sisters, To whom no Awe, nor Guard makes difficult approach▪ Be safe; no, I presage they shall be prostituted all, Defiled, abused, torn up with impious lust; And to conceal the wicked Actors names, Be murdered as mine has been.

Rom. 2.

But, pray, Sir, if a man may be so bold, who was the Dog that did this plaguy Job; by S. Winnifred, my Fingers do so itch to be at him.

Rom. 1.

Ay, do but tell us where we may find the Dog, and we will roast the Rogue: and make the Devil a Feast of him.

Sax.

I, that's the thing I ask, revenge, revenge me. And to encourage you for this great deed; Take this, and this for your Reward, and Heaven And Justice for your Leaders.

Rom. 1.

Gold, Boys!

Rom. 2.

A noble worthy Prince, and we'll live and die by him.

Sax.

But Gentlemen, when I have recounted the strange Actors, and the more strange Villainy, I fear the Story will appear so monstrous That you'll scarce dare believe me.

Rom. 2.

How, not believe, and live at Rome.

Rom. 1.

Do we believe in Images, and Relicks, and Holywater, and Miracles, and not believe an honest golden Prince?

Sax.

Then, generous Romans, know, I owe mine and this Beauteous Martyrs ruine To your accursed Pope.

Rom. 1.

The Pope!

Rom. 2.

The Pope!

Rom. 3.

Take heed Sir, what you say; the Pope! But that you have greas'd us in the fist, or else— Udslid, the Pope!

Sax.

Nay, Romans, do not think I utter ought Against Romes Majesty, but Romes Usurper; Not that great Office, and the blessed Prelacy, But the accurst Impostor that profanes it: Oh, Gentlemen, that seeming Royal Head To which you kneel and pray, is an abhorr'd, Loath'd Sorceress, a filthy rank Adulteress, A Woman damn'd in Lust, whilst the vile Schriech Owl Broods in the Nest of Eagles.

Enter Lorenzo.

Lor.

The murder'd Angeline, and the Saxon Duke. This Ground's too hot for me.

Offers to go.

Sax.

Stay Villain, stay.

Look on that Martyr, and this Arm, and then Prepare thy Soul for everlasting Fire.

Lor.

I will not fight with thee.

Sax.

Not fight! Art thou a Brute so rank, and yet so fearful. But do I talk, a Minutes life's too long.

Fights.

Lor.

Thou hast kill'd me, and Damnation thank thee for't.

Dies.

Sax.

Thus far, blest Saint, thy great revenge succeeds.

Enter Pope, Cardinals, Priests, and other Officers, as in form of a Procession.

Pope.

Lorenzo murder'd, and that Saxon Basilisk Alive, and in the head o'th' Multitude! I am betrayed, undone.

Aside.

Sax.

Romans, Lords, Cardinals, to you I speak, That brand of Hell—

Pope.

Now by yon bright Omnipotence, Some black design against Romes awful Godhead.

Sax.

No, by yon bright Omnipotence I come For Justice, Justice against Romes Scarlet Whore.

Pope.

Dear adored Devil, save me but this once.

Sax.

Oh Romans, Romes once shining Dignity And dazling Glory is eclipsed for ever. Instead of Majesty t'adorn a Throne, That mitred Monster is a Whore, Hag, Sorceress.

Pope.

Heavens, can your Thunder sleep, and tamely hear Such Blasphemies within the Walls of Rome.

Card. 1.

Inhumane Insolence.

Card. 2.

Exquisite Traytor!

Sax.

No, willful blind deluded Prelates, no, Eternity blast me, if she be not a Woman, And the most rank Damnation ever shaped. And to make up her loathed Abominations By her contrivance was this Beauty First ravished, and then murder'd: Whilst th' Hell-burnt Lust of the adult'rous Hag Within these blasted Arms supplyed her Room.

Pope.

Oh Rome, and Romans,, lest the wrath of Heaven Should rain down Fire upon your guilty Heads: Upon the forfeit of your Souls revenge me.

Sax.

Revenge my Wrongs, and this fair Martyrs Blood. Oh right the Honour of Romes injured Majesty, And burn the Enchantress.

Pope.

Oh right the Honour of Romes injured Majesty, And seise the Heretick.

Saxony draws, and makes at the Pope, but is disarm'd by the people.

All the Card.

Burn, burn the Traytor.

The Rabble.

Burn him, burn him, burn him.

Exeunt the Rabble, forcing out Saxony to execution.

Pope.

This dread Encounter, (oh my staggering frame) Has loosen'd every Vein about my Heart, And I am all o'er Convulsions. But lead on, And end the Sacred Business of the day, His Treason stopt, but his Blood clears our way.

Exeunt.

The Scene opens, and discovers a Stake and Faggots, with Priests with Lighted Torches to kindle the Fire, and the Rabble hurrying Saxo∣ny to the Fire.

Sax.

Burn at a Stake, doom'd like a Slave, a Traytor! Farewel thou Royal rank Church Whore, farewel, Live and reign on, yes hot Inchantress live Romes universal Teeming, Fruitful Prostitute: Brood on Romes cursed Chair, brood like a hatching Basilisk: Entail thy Lust t'a thousand Generations, And warm the Nest for all thy bloody Successors: May not that Beast of Prey, a Pope, succeed thee, But be thy Bastard, Not a Cell nor Cloyster But be thy Brothel. And not a fawning Cardinal but thy Bawd: And lest thy hopeful progeny shoul fail, Mix thy black Lust with some engendring Devil, And people thy curst Rome with Imps and Goblins. And to employ all Hells whole stock of Fire, May all thy race be Cardinals, Popes, Abbots,

Monks, Friars, Priests and all be damn'd together.

Rabble.

Burn him, burn him.

Scene shuts.

Enter Cardinals.

Card. 1.

By all that's good, a Whore, a Witch, Confusion? Romes dread Majesty transform'd T'a teeming Hag, and an abortive Bastard!

Card. 2.

Miscarried in the Street, i'th' open face of day.

Card. 3.

Frighted, no doubt, with that fierce hectoring Duke: The puny, half got, weak, untimely Bastard Fell from the brooding Fiend.

Card. 4.

Romes Royal Chair, Once the bright Seat of Heavens great Deputies, Profaned and sullied by a Whore, a Syren; May this curst day, and this more cursed deed From Romes great Annals be for ever torn.

Card. 1.

No let her shame be branded to posterity. First be her Body into Tyber thrown, Then hers and her unshapen Bastards Image Be fix'd upon a Pyramid in Rome: And lastly, in all future times No Mitred Prelate in divine Procession, Presume to pass through that detested Street Where this curst Sorceress fell.

Card. 2.

But my good Brothers, How shall we guard our Mother Churches Brightness From new pollutions; fence her holy Throne From new Impostors: from all future Sorceries?

Card. 1.

Oh Brothers, by immediate revelation, Touch'd with a Spark from yon Celestial Orb, I've have found that happy glorious great design, For which our yet even unborn Heirs shall thank me.

Card. 3.

Oh speak.

Card. 1.

Thus then the Coronation Porphyry, On which Romes installed Bishop, Heavens Lieutenant takes his great Commission, Shall thro' it have that subtle concave form'd

Thro' which a reverend Matrons hand —

Card. 2.

Now by yon Stars inspired by some good Angel▪ I guess thy glorious purpose.

Card. 1.

Now Devils we defie your utmost power, Romes awful Throne shall be profan'd no more. Put Whores and Bawds upon us, if you can, Romes Mitred Head henceforth shall be a Man.

Exeunt omnes.

FINIS.

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