University of Virginia Library

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.