The Female Prelate being The History of the Life and Death of Pope Joan. A tragedy |
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 | 5. | ACT the Fifth. |
 | The Female Prelate |  |
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ACT the Fifth.
The Scene the Prison.Amiran alone.
Amir.
Hither I come to bring a Soveraign head,
A Soveraign Cure, a sober sleeping Pill;
I, that's the word.
Poor Saxony! thy Royal Father murder'd,
Thy dearest Princess ravisht, and to make up
The most unnatural monstrous mass of Cruelty,
Thy Fathers Poysoner, and thy Fathers Whore,
Lodged in thy Bed. Oh thou'rt a true Original
Of unexampled Misery: No Tragedy
Ere equall'd thine. Yet after all, this most
Wrong'd Prince must bleed, and I must be his murderer.
Oh my faint Arm! Oh my Barbarian Mistriss!
Well, I remember I have served thy Lust,
My breast the Cabinet to all thy Whoredoms;
Nay, like an Usurer to the Trust thou hast lent me,
I've play'd the Bawd t'increase 'em. All these Ills
I never trembled at; but oh, there's something
In Murder so beyond a Female Villain,
As my Soul startles at the thought. But why,
Why do I play the foolish Crocodile,
And mourn where I must kill?
Enter Saxony and Carlo.
—Yonder he comes!
Let me retire a while, and borrow strength
For this dire Execution.
Absconds.
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Oh my wrong'd Angeline,
What have I done? by what Infatuation,
What damn'd Illusion led, have I a Monster
Claspt to my breast? or has some Rival-God,
In malice to thy happier envyed Lord,
Caught thee t'his Heaven t'outshine yon dazling Stars,
And left that changeling Demon in my Arms!
I shall run mad.
Amir.
Alas, poor injur'd Prince!
Sax.
Tell me, ye Powers Infernal, I conjure you
By all the Pleasures of Revenge;
And thou curst Pope, thou greater blacker Devil,
Tell me by what Inchantments, Spells, Drugs, Minerals,
That savage Whore you lodged within my Arms;
And to make up that Monster more than execrable,
Lent her thy own infernal face to blast me.
Amir.
Oh I can hold no longer! Ye Gods,
That so much Excellence should be created
For so much Ruine! Pity, Conscience, Love,
I know not which thou art: But on the suddain
My dire resolves are stagger'd.
Sax.
Art thou here!
Oh my young Pandar! ye kinde Powers, I thank you.
Thou unfletcht Imp, thou early-lighted brand
Of everlasting fire, tell me what Fury
Thy impious hand lodged in my Bed last night;
Tell me, for I will know.
Amir.
Oh, Sir, no more.
I cannot, must not, will not, dare not tell you.
Sax.
Not tell me! Now by thy own Mother-Hag
That bore thee in a Ditch, fed thee with Scorpions,
Swath'd thee with Adders, suckled thee with Bloud,
And dipt thee young in Hell,
Speak quickly, or I'll tear the cursed Secret
From thy impostum'd heart; speak, or I'll kill thee.
Amir.
Yes, do, Sir, and I'll thank you for the kindness;
For if I speak, I must kill you: and trust me,
I have that sense of your unhappy sufferings,
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Your Murderer.
Sax.
And art thou then in earnest?
Come, prithee speak; I was to blame to chide thee:
Be not afraid; speak but the fatal truth,
And by my hopes of Heav'n I will forgive thee.
Out with it, come; now wouldst thou tell me all,
But art ashamed to own thy self a Bawd:
'Las, that might be thy Fathers fault, not thine.
Perhaps some honest humble Cottage bred thee,
And thy ambitious Parents poorly proud,
For a gay Coat made thee a Page at Court,
And for a plume of Feathers sold thy Soul;
But 'tis not yet, not yet too late to save it.
Amir.
Oh my sad heart!
Sax.
Come, prithee speak; let but
A true confession plead thy penitence,
And Heav'n will then forgive thee as I do.
Amir.
But, Sir, can you resolve to lend an ear
To sounds so terrible, so full of fate,
As will not onely act a single Tragedy,
But even dis-joynt all Natures Harmony,
And quite untune the world? for such, such are
The Notes that I must breathe.
Sax.
Oh my dear Murderer,
Breath 'em as cheerfully as the soaring Lark
Wakes the gay Morn. Those dear sweet Airs that kill me,
Are my new nuptial Songs. My Angeline
Has been my first, and Death's my second Bride.
Amir.
Know then, th'Enchantress that these two last nights
Slept in your bosome, was your Fathers Poysoner.
Sax.
Riddles and Death! what mystick sounds are these?
Amir.
That Sorceress that in a borrow'd shape
Usurps Rome's sacred Throne, was the dire Fiend.
Sax.
Ha!
Amir.
Oh Sir, I read that lightning in your eyes
That tells me, I have set your Soul on fire.
Break, break, great heart, thou'rt too much lost to live,
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For I must tell you all. That lust-burnt Hag
Began her game with your unhappy Father.
You may remember in the Saxon Court,
A fatal Beauty call'd Joanna Anglica,
That Syren first defiled your Fathers Bed,
And then by Jealousie transform'd t'his Priest,
And by Revenge t'his Murderer—his bloud,
His Royal bloud she doubly, doubly poyson'd.
Sax.
Thunder and Earthquakes!
Amir.
And not t'end there neither,
The bestial lust of her incestuous Fires
Traced your dead fathers Beauties in your Eyes;
And the same sulphurous Mine that blew his soul up,
Was light to sacrifice the Martyr'd son.
Sax.
A Whore, a Poysoner! nay, a Fathers Whore,
And Fathers Poysoner! Oh my bloated Soul!
O most unnatural doubly damn'd Hyena,
Mixt in my Fathers shame! Oh horrour, horrour!
Oh my vast wrongs, destruction, ruine, death!
Strike thick, ye darts of fate. My poor dear Angeline.
Ha! spight of all my pains, that Name has life in't.
Say, Boy, how fares my Angeline? Tho millions
Of torturing Furies gore this bleeding heart,
I know thou'lt say she's well, and lives unhurt,
Sleeps innocent, and in her golden slumbers
She little dreams what numberless distractions
Surround her wretched Lord.
Amir.
Alas, Sir,—
Sax.
Ha!
Amir.
The saddest part of all my killing story
Is yet to come. By the same Stratagem
That has deceiv'd her Lord, was your poor Princess,
By false Lorenzo's lust, enjoy'd and ravisht.
Sax.
Now all the Plagues of him that sold his God,
Reward the execrable Dog. My Angeline,
My dearest, sweetest, and once brightest Angeline!
Ye Tyrant Powers, ye everlasting Torturers,
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Oh bury me like the rebellious Gyants,
Loaded with Mountain-piles, for I shall rave,
Rave to that height, till all my gasping Pangs,
My rowling Tears, and my loud bellowing Groans,
Burst out like Cataracts, enough to deafen
The very Thunder of my angry Gods.
Yet hold, I have some business to dispatch,
Before my Eye-balls burst. Say, Boy, canst thou
Oblige a very wretched thing, and bear
My dying sighs to that dear martyr'd Innocence?
Amir.
My Lord, I can.
Sax.
And wilt thou be so kind?
Nay, thou'lt be kinder yet: for thou'rt a Convert,
A gentle honest Boy. But oh too late!
Speak, is it in thy power to bless my Eyes
With one last view of those dear beauteous Ruines,
Before we part and die?
Amir.
My Lord, it is;
Your Princess is my Charge:
And your own servant here, by my instructions,
Shall haste and bring her to your arms this minute.
Sax.
Heav'ns brightest Diadem crown thee for this goodness.
There Amiran whispers with Carlo, and gives him a Key.
Flie, Carlo, flie, and as thou bringst her hither,
Repeat the dismal Tale of all our Woes.
But oh, 'tis terrible, 'tis wondrous terrible
For such chast ears, yet she must hear it all.
Leave not one tittle that may wing her Soul
For its last flight; for, Carlo, she must die.
The softest heart that yon celestial fire
Could ever animate, must break and die.
We are both too wretched to outlive this day;
And I but send thee as her executioner.
Carlo.
I flie to obey you, Sir.
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Stay, Carlo, stay.
Why all this haste to murder so much Innocence?
Yet thou must go. And since thy tongue must kill
The brightest form th'inamour'd Stars can ere
Receive, or the impoverisht World can lose,
Go, Carlo, go; but prithee wound her Soul
As gently as thou canst: and when thou seest
A flowing shower from her twin-Orbs of light
All drown the faded Roses of her Cheeks;
When thou beholdst 'midst her distracted groans
Her furious hand, that feeble fair Revenger,
Rend all the mangled Beauties of her Face,
Tear her bright Locks, and their dishevell'd pride
On her pale neck that ravisht whiteness fall;
Guard, guard thy eyes, for, Carlo, 'tis a sight
Will strike Spectators dead.
Exit Carlo.
Amir.
I fear there needs
No study now to be that Beauties Murderer.
Sax.
How, boy!
Amir.
The bloudy Pope, frighted last night
At her discovered face, has doom'd you both
T'eternal silence by a Bowl of poyson.
Sax.
Damnation!
Amir.
These three thousand Crowns were given me
To bribe your Priest to mix your fatal drugs,
And I am afraid her draught's already past.
Sax.
Now for a Bait so strong might catch the Devil!
I'd angle with this black rank Whore she-Pope;
I'd float the Witch upon the burning Lake,
And when the hungry Fiend bob'd up to gorge her,
I'd with her Crosier stick him through the throat,
And tug him up from Hell. Sport for a God!
Oh the wilde forms of my unruly Soul!
Enter Angeline with her hair dishevelled, attended by Carlo.
Thou beauteous pile of everlasting Woe,
Approach thy wretched Lord.
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Where art thou, Carlo?
Lend me thy hand, and guide me to my Love;
For these benighted eyes are so or'edrown'd in tears,
That I am all dark, and cannot finde my way.
Sax.
So have I seen a Cloud all gilt with light;
But oh ye Pow'rs that could those Heav'ns benight!
What was her day, if she can set so bright?
Ang.
Oh my lov'd Lord,
This ruin'd thing comes to thy feet to die.
Sax.
If thou must die, draw neer, my lovely Martyr;
Come to this Breast, and make these arms thy Monument.
Ang.
In those lov'd arms! Oh stay, where am I going?
Stand off, my Lord, stand off.
Those dear embraces are too blest a circle
For such a sullied bloated thing as I am.
Sax.
And can I be more miserable still!
Ah can those setting beams of light withdraw
Their last kind warmth from thy expiring Lord!
Ang.
No, my dear Life, we must embrace no more.
Should I approach those charming Fires too nigh,
There's so much vital heat in thy lov'd bosom,
That I shall live, live a polluted Monster,
And make the blushing world asham'd to own me.
Live with my load of shame! No, cruel Pow'rs,
Hear my last Prayer, and give my murder'd Honour
And me one Grave.
Sax.
Oh thou bright falling Star,
Never was Love nor Injuries like thine!
Poor ravisht sweetness!
Ang.
Ravisht! Oh ruine, fate, destruction, Death!
These Eyes, these Lips, oh Heav'ns, this sacred Bosom,
Once the blest Throne of thy transported Joys,
Made a loath'd Monsters Prey! But oh ye Powers,
This is not half my Scene of Woe! Alas,
The bleeding Lucrece and the mourning Philomel
Could plead as much as this: But I am a wretch
A thousand times more monstrously deform'd.
Oh my vast Wounds! there's that wide breach of ruine
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To break both hearts.
Sax.
Together let 'em break.
Ang.
Oh my wrong'd Lord,
When to my fatal Bed th'Adulterer came,
But oh that hour be blotted from eternity!
I harmless, languishing, expecting Innocence,
Met the foul Traytour, kist, embraced him, loved him,
Around his neck my longing arms I threw;
For I was kinde, and thought, my Lord, 'twas you.
Oh horrour, horrour, unexampled horrour!
Sax.
Name it no more. Why did the eternal Being
Create a form so perfectly divine,
The miracle of Story, Ages, Worlds,
So far above her Sex upon a Pyramid
Of Trophies fixt like a transparent Glory,
And now all at one sudden blast of Lightning
To strike the Master-piece of their Creation,
Thrown headlong from her Pinacle of Honour,
And dash the shining Christal Globe to pieces?
Blush, blush, ye Gods, blush till your glowing Skies
Anticipate the worlds last Funeral-pile,
And scorching Nature burn and rave as I do.
Ang.
Methinks I see thro' your distracted eyes
A load of Fate weigh down your drooping Soul;
And is it all for your poor Angeline!
Be comforted; what tho I come to die,
'Tis but a short farewel to this base world,
Till we shall meet in purer Joys above.
Sax.
Ah no, my Angeline; when thou art dead,
I am afraid my Wrongs so high will rise,
Make such Complaints against my angry Stars,
Till in despair
I curse the Author of my wretched Being;
Then in my wilde Apostate fury die,
And never meet thee more.
Ang.
O fie, my Lord,
Take heed, take heed of this unjust despair;
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Oh do not tax the great Omnipotence
Of ought unjust; when they deposed us here,
No doubt 'twas but to crown us brighter there.
Sax.
Yes, ye great Powers, make us amends in Heav'n;
For we have had but little Justice here.
Ang.
Oh my dear Love, I die.
Now take me, take me to thy dearest arms:
You need not be afraid t'embrace me now,
For I shall die, and be all white agin,
And you may love me then without a sin.
In this warm Bed a spotless Martyr lay,
For Death's kind hand wipes all my stains away.
Dies.
Sax.
What dismal Planets reign'd when I was born?
Planets, Fiends, Furies!
These were th'ascendant Lords at my creation
That abhorr'd Night: when my unlucky Parents
Mixt their unhappy Loves to form this Being,
No smiling Star peep'd forth.
But where's this Ravisher, this Pope, young Fairy?
Revenge, ye Gods, revenge! Is there that word
In all the dear Records of Fate for me?
Oh could I but escape from this dire place,
And meet once more that Monster face to face!
Amir.
My Lord, you shall.
Sax.
How, Boy! say that again.
Amir.
Sir, this Gold
Design'd to buy your Bloud, shall pay your Ransome:
With this I'll purchase your deliverance.
Thus secretly releast, be it your art
To strike your Dagger to the Traytors heart.
Sax.
Now art thou kinder than a giving God,
And even preventst my Prayers. From thy bright Heav'n,
Blest Saint, look down, and let thy well-pleas'd Ghost
Smile at the Victim I intend to make thee.
And the slow pangs of his sad heart forgive,
Who for thy Vengeance must thy Fate outlive.
Exeunt.
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Scene the Last.
Enter a Rabble of Romans.From within.]
A Procession! a Procession! A Procession!
Rom. 1.
Well Neighbours, since his Holiness is pleased to give
us a Holy-day, let us improve it, and make the best use on't, that
is, go to the Tavern, and be down-right drunk.
Rom. 2.
I, Neighbour, for I never knew any other use of a Holy-day,
but first to go to Church, and then be drunk.
Rom. 1.
You make a just interpretation: but here lies the question,
whether we shall sit in the Tavern like Sots, and not be
drunk till night, or go and be presently drunk, then go home,
beat our Wives, and sleep an hour, then rise and be drunk again
before Sun-set, this I take to be the improvement of the day.
Rom. All.
I, I, 'tis, 'tis.
Rom. 2.
But heark you, Neighbour, do you never go to Church?
Rom. 1.
Positively, no; my reasons I will render. First, you
do not take me for the least Fool amongst you.
All.
No, no!
Rom. 2.
Nor the least Knave, Neighbour's.
All.
No, No.
Rom. 1.
Then I conclude I'll never pray at all, whilst we
we have such Shoals of Church Men to do it for us, as Cardinals,
Monks, Abbots, Priors, and a thousand Orders more; and with
all these Holy Men about us, 'tis impossible we should be damn'd,
Neighbours.
Rom. 2.
Ay, but, Neighbour, you ought to help at a dead lift,
'tis hard trusting to other mens prayers.
Rom. 1.
Why, don't I pay for it, I tell thee it goes against the
grain to pray and pay too, I'll not do't not I, and if I be damn'd,
at their peril be it.
Rom. 2.
Then I perceive, Neighbour, you are in a desperate
condition.
Rom. 1.
Not at all, for always when I pay the Priest his duties
I always take an acquittance, and those Acquittances I take as
a Passport to slip me by Purgatory into the other world.
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But which of those other worlds do you think to go to?
Rom. 1.
So I 'scape Purgatory, no matter which.
Rom. 2.
But I am afraid this will not do your Work, Neighbour!
Rom. 1.
Then let the Church 'bate me my Peter-pence, and I'll
pray for my self: and ne'er trouble them, and that I think is fair.
All.
Aye, Aye!
Rom. 1.
Besides that's taking the bread out of the Priests
Mouths, and that's no other than Sacrilege, 'tis plain Intrenchment.
Rom. 3.
Intrenchment! what's Intrenchment!
Rom. 1.
Are you such a fool you don't know what Intrenchment
means, why Intrenchment is a hard word, and you all know
what a hard word is,
All.
I, I.
Rom. 1.
Why, 'tis medling with what we have nothing to do
with, which is no better than picking ones Pocket; why Neighbour,
you keep a reverend Brandy Shop, and would not you take
it ill if a Cardinal should set up, and sell Brandy by you? In troth,
he'd go nigh to break you.
Rom. 3.
I dod, would he?
Rrm. 4.
I'll undertake, if a Cardinal should sell Brandy, he'd
be the richest man in all Rome.
Rom. 1.
I'll undertake then I'll find you one shall do't.
Enter the Duke of Saxony with Attendants, bearing in the dead body of the Dutchess of Saxony.
Rom. 2.
But see that which you call'd a Procession looks more
like a Funeral.
D. Sax.
Oh, worthy Romans, here behold a sight
Will fill your Eyes with Tears, and Hearts with Grief;
And if this sight alone shall fail to move,
For Deaths are common in the Stretes of Rome,
Yet will the Story, when unfolded, strike
You all with sudden horrour and amazement.
Rom. 1.
Dad, he speaks well.
Sax.
Say worthy Roman's
If freely you'll afford your Charity
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And injuries, lays by his Honours
And Titles to become your humble Suppliant.
Rom. 2.
Our humble Suppliant.
Sax.
Nor do I doubt, but when you have heard my Story,
You will afford your pity and revenge.
Rom. 1.
Well Sir, I understand you are a Prince, and that
your good Lady is dead, and you'd have us make her alive again.
We can do you no good in it; 'tis not every man that lives in
Rome can do that Job, but if you'll speak to the Pope, or one of his
Cardinals they'll do it for a word speaking.
Sax.
And is this all the attention you can give me!
Oh, Rome, how is thy wonted Braveness changed,
Since thy Inhabitants at call of Anthony
Flock'd round the Body of their murder'd Cæsar;
With Tears they wash'd his Wounds,
And mixt a Deluge with his gushing Blood;
Then starting from the Corps with noble rage,
Revenge and Justice through the Streets they cryed.
Oh, Romans, you will live to see that day
When from your Roofs your Daughters will be dragg'd,
Their Virgin Innocence abused with dust,
And thus brought home a lamentable Spectacle.
Thus shall your Wives and Daughters all be ravished,
Dishonour'd, Poyson'd.
Rom. 2.
Why, has the Princess been so serv'd!
Rom. 1.
So it seems, if you'll believe a dead woman.
Sax.
If this dear Beauty, born of Noble Blood,
By Wedlock planted in a Prince's Bosom,
Could not escape from Treason, Rapes and Death,
How shall your Wives, your Daughters, and your Sisters,
To whom no Awe, nor Guard makes difficult approach.
Be safe; no, I presage they shall be prostituted all,
Defiled, abused, torn up with impious lust;
And to conceal the wicked Actors names,
Be murdered as mine has been.
Rom. 2.
But, pray, Sir, if a man may be so bold, who was the
Dog that did this plaguy Job; by S. Winnifred, my Fingers do so
itch to be at him.
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Ay, do but tell us where we may find the Dog, and
we will roast the Rogue: and make the Devil a Feast of him.
Sax.
I, that's the thing I ask, revenge, revenge me.
And to encourage you for this great deed;
Take this, and this for your Reward, and Heaven
And Justice for your Leaders.
Rom. 1.
Gold, Boys!
Rom. 2.
A noble worthy Prince, and we'll live and die by him.
Sax.
But Gentlemen, when I have recounted the strange
Actors, and the more strange Villainy,
I fear the Story will appear so monstrous
That you'll scarce dare believe me.
Rom. 2.
How, not believe, and live at Rome.
Rom. 1.
Do we believe in Images, and Relicks, and Holywater,
and Miracles, and not believe an honest golden Price?
Sax.
Then, generous Romans, know,
I owe mine and this Beauteous Martyrs ruine
To your accursed Pope.
Rom. 1.
The Pope!
Rom. 2.
The Pope!
Rom. 3.
Take heed Sir, what you say; the Pope!
But that you have greas'd us in the fist, or else—
Udslid, the Pope!
Sax.
Nay, Romans, do not think I utter ought
Against Romes Majesty, but Romes Usurper;
Not that great Office, and the blessed Prelacy,
But the accurst Impostor that profanes it:
Oh, Gentlemen, that seeming Royal Head
To which you kneel and pray, is an abhorr'd,
Loath'd Sorceress, a filthy rank Adulteress,
A Woman damn'd in Lust, whilst the vile Schriech Owl
Broods in the Nest of Eagles.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lor.
The murder'd Angeline, and the Saxon Duke.
This Ground's too hot for me.
[Offers to go.
Sax.
Stay Villain, stay.
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Prepare thy Soul for everlasting Fire.
Lor.
I will not fight with thee.
Sax.
Not fight!
Art thou a Brute so rank, and yet so fearful.
But do I talk, a Minutes life's too long.
[Fights.
Lor.
Thou hast kill'd me, and Damnation thank thee for't.
[Dies.
Sax.
Thus far, blest Saint, thy great revenge succeeds.
Enter Pope, Cardinals, Priests, and other Officers, as in form of a Procession.
Pope.
Lorenzo murder'd, and that Saxon Basilisk
Alive, and in the head o'th' Multitude!
I am betrayed, undone.
[Aside.
Sax.
Romans, Lords, Cardinals, to you I speak,
That brand of Hell—
Pope.
Now by yon bright Omnipotence,
Some black design against Romes awful Godhead.
Sax.
No, by yon bright Omnipotence I come
For Justice, Justice against Romes Scarlet Whore.
Pope.
Dear adored Devil, save me but this once.
Sax.
Oh Romans, Romes once shining Dignity
And dazling Glory is eclipsed for ever.
Instead of Majesty t'adorn a Throne,
That mitred Monster is a Whore, Hag, Sorceress.
Pope.
Heavens, can your Thunder sleep, and tamely hear
Such Blasphemies within the Walls of Rome.
Card. 1.
Inhumane Insolence.
Card. 2.
Exquisite Traytor!
Sax.
No, willful blind deluded Prelates, no,
Eternity blast me, if she be not a Woman,
And the most rank Damnation ever shaped.
And to make up her loathed Abominations
By her contrivance was this Beauty
First ravished, and then murder'd:
Whilst th'Hell-burnt Lust of the adult'rous Hag
Within these blasted Arms supplyed her Room.
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Oh Rome, and Romans,, lest the wrath of Heaven
Should rain down Fire upon your guilty Heads:
Upon the forfeit of your Souls revenge me.
Sax.
Revenge my Wrongs, and this fair Martyrs Blood.
Oh right the Honour of Romes injured Majesty,
And burn the Enchantress.
Pope.
Oh right the Honour of Romes injured Majesty,
And seise the Heretick.
[Saxony draws, and makes at the Pope, but is disarm'd by the people.
All the Card.
Burn, burn the Traytor.
The Rabble.
Burn him, burn him, burn him.
[Exeunt the Rabble, forcing out Saxony to execution.
Pope.
This dread Encounter, (oh my staggering frame)
Has loosen'd every Vein about my Heart,
And I am all o'er Convulsions. But lead on,
And end the Sacred Business of the day,
His Treason stopt, but his Blood clears our way.
[Exeunt.
The Scene opens, and discovers a Stake and Faggots, with Priests with Lighted Torches to kindle the Fire, and the Rabble hurrying Saxony to the Fire.
Sax.
Burn at a Stake, doom'd like a Slave, a Traytor!
Farewel thou Royal rank Church Whore, farewel,
Live and reign on, yes hot Inchantress live
Romes universal Teeming, Fruitful Prostitute:
Brood on Romes cursed Chair, brood like a hatching Basilisk:
Entail thy Lust t'a thousand Generations,
And warm the Nest for all thy bloody Successors:
May not that Beast of Prey, a Pope, succeed thee,
But be thy Bastard, Not a Cell nor Cloyster
But be thy Brothel.
And not a fawning Cardinal but thy Bawd:
And lest thy hopeful progeny shoul fail,
Mix thy black Lust with some engendring Devil,
And people thy curst Rome with Imps and Goblins.
And to employ all Hells whole stock of Fire,
May all thy race be Cardinals, Popes, Abbots,
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Rabble.
Burn him, burn him.
[Scene shuts.
Enter Cardinals.
Card. 1.
By all that's good, a Whore, a Witch,
Confusion? Romes dread Majesty transform'd
T'a teeming Hag, and an abortive Bastard!
Card. 2.
Miscarried in the Street, i'th' open face of day.
Card. 3.
Frighted, no doubt, with that fierce hectoring Duke:
The puny, half got, weak, untimely Bastard
Fell from the brooding Fiend.
Card. 4.
Romes Royal Chair,
Once the bright Seat of Heavens great Deputies,
Profaned and sullied by a Whore, a Syren;
May this curst day, and this more cursed deed
From Romes great Annals be for ever torn.
Card. 1.
No let her shame be branded to posterity.
First be her Body into Tyber thrown,
Then hers and her unshapen Bastards Image
Be fix'd upon a Pyramid in Rome:
And lastly, in all future times
No Mitred Prelate in divine Procession,
Presume to pass through that detested Street
Where this curst Sorceress fell.
Card. 2.
But my good Brothers,
How shall we guard our Mother Churches Brightness
From new pollutions; fence her holy Throne
From new Impostors: from all future Sorceries?
Card. 1.
Oh Brothers, by immediate revelation,
Touch'd with a Spark from yon Celestial Orb,
I've have found that happy glorious great design,
For which our yet even unborn Heirs shall thank me.
Card. 3.
Oh speak.
Card. 1.
Thus then the Coronation Porphyry,
On which Romes installed Bishop, Heavens
Lieutenant takes his great Commission,
Shall thro' it have that subtle concave form'd
72
Card. 2.
Now by yon Stars inspired by some good Angel,
I guess thy glorious purpose.
Card. 1.
Now Devils we defie your utmost power,
Romes awful Throne shall be profan'd no more.
Put Whores and Bawds upon us, if you can,
Romes Mitred Head henceforth shall be a Man.
[Exeunt omnes.
FINIS.
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