The Female Prelate being The History of the Life and Death of Pope Joan. A tragedy |
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 | The Female Prelate |  |
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.
The bloudy Murderer runs but to a Church,
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
'Tis possible some of us may escape.
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.
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.
48
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
49
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 Female Prelate | |