 | The Female Prelate |  |
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 Offender 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, crossing 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 Cæsar:
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.
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,
2
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;
3
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 Offender 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.
4
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 Cæsar:
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:
5
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.
| The Female Prelate | |