University of Virginia Library

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.

Pope.
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.
Onely her deeper stream more silent flows:
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!
I'll melt the Crown from the gilt Martyrs head,
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.