 | The Female Prelate |  |
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 they,
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 Gorgon 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.
[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.
Can 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 Cæsar'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 Cæsar'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.
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,
26
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,
27
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,
28
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,
29
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
30
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 they,
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
31
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 Gorgon Pope,
32
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.
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.
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
33
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
34
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,
35
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.
Can you first remember
36
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 Cæsar'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?
37
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
38
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 Cæsar'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,
39
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
40
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 Female Prelate | |