University of Virginia Library

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.

Sir,

[Reads.

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 pardons
is stampt in Gold. In fine, the Pope with all his Limbs, the

Cardinals, is but a growing Hydra; and whilst your Excellence continues
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.

Card. 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 in 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.