University of Virginia Library

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
The scene of our delights was set on fire.
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;
For I am resolved he dies. Yet, Gods! 'tis hard,
'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.
Thou mayst act safely for me; for he knows
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.