The Female Prelate being The History of the Life and Death of Pope Joan. A tragedy |
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 | The Female Prelate |  |
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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
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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:
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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.
Aside.
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!
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.
Aside.
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
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 Ætna!
Traytors, Priests, Monsters.
Here, open the door.
Knocking.
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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.
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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.
Ushering 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
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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;
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'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.
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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.
| The Female Prelate | |