THE Female Prelate: BEING The History of the Life and Death OF POPE JOAN.  
A TRAGEDY.  
As it is Acted at The Theatre Royal.  
Written by ELKANAH SETTLE, Servant to His Majesty.  
Facit Indignatio Versus.  Juven. 
LONDON: Printed for W. Cademan, at the Pope's head in the New Exchange. 1680.   

TO The RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Earl of Shaftsbury.  
My LORD,  
Scribblers of my Profession, pay so natural a Devotion to Greatness that the least dawn of Approbation from an Eminent Personage, fires 'em with a more than ordinary Assurance, and is Armour sufficient against the Censure of the World. This, my Lord, has enboldened me to that height, that I can confidently scorn the malicious Critic on the one side, and the revenging Jesuit on the other: for what blinded Bigot will dare show his missive obedience, when your Lordship's Name (the greatest Charm against all their Sorceries) appears to own me? Your lordship's Name, which must blossom on the Records of our latest Posterity. It would be needless in me, to declare how well your Lordship has deserved in England; it is a Theme, of which the most ignorant of the Orcadeses are full, and which the most envious of the Court must acknowledge. England, in its greatest Exigence, has found your Lordship its fastest Friend, and at that time too when honest actions were performed in danger, when the sword of Damocles hung over the heads of the most zealous Protestants. But 'tis not enough that the world acknowledges your Lordship the greatest of Statesmen, unless it does your Merit that justice, to own you the boldest and the loyallest too: for State-policy is of that comprehensive quality, and includes such Motions of that strangely-distant Latitude, that I can only compare it to the Poet's God of Fire; it either refines the Oar, and mints the very Gold that adorns the shining Palaces of Kings, or forges out the Thunder that destroys 'em. Nay, too often that very Policy that has the fairest face of Allegiance, whose Counsels should be a Guide and Light to Majesty, (for without derogation to the Divinity of a Crown, Kings are sometimes but Men) is but the mere Exhalation of Greatness, a Vapour which the Breath of Sovereignty raises higher or lower, whilst (like the Cloud that either rains, hails, or snows) it either cools or warms but with the Air it meets with. And thus the Statesman that should be the Counsellor, is but the Echo of Power, rather the Minister of his Prince's Pleasure than Glory; and so little executes the great Office he undertakes, that he is scarce the shadow of what he represents. But all such flattering and mercenary service, your Lordship's braver Soul abhors, whilst your undaunted Counsels are unshockt by Frowns, and unbribed by Honours. Our England has in one circumstance the fate of Troy; our Established Religion is our true Palladium; and whilst that is preserved, we are invincible, unhurt by all the Hostility of the world; but that once gone, our ruined Troynovant is but an universal Conflagration: and he that like your Lordship most studies to secure that Palladium, maintains the brightest Jewel in his Prince's Crown, and is both his Sovereign's best Subject, and his Country's truest and faithfullest Champion.  
Thus whilst there is that Party for whose Defeat your Lordship has so strenuously and so justly laboured, you have only acted as an English Patriot: Your unfathomed Depths foresaw the dangerous Faction, no less threatening than a growing Phaeton; and in your Lordship's vigorous and indefatigable opposition, your very Enemies, if they will take leisure to think, must with shame confess your Memorable and Loyal Counsels have with a plain and unclouded Aspect so much tended to an universal and eternal preservation of Peace, that all men of sense must plainly see you would rather side with a counselling Phoebus, than a destroying Jupiter; would rather by your timely advice prevent the Combustion of a world, than call down Thunder too late to punish the Incendiaries.  
Thus your Lordship's unwearied Service to your King and Country, must undoubtedly spring from an unquestionable Principle of Loyalty: and as no little Argument for it, If Loyalty were ever truly generous, 'tis in your Lordship; for with the Philosopher's description of Virtue, 'tis alone its own Reward.  
And now I cannot but reflect on your Lordship's numerous Enemies, nor better rank 'em than under these three Files.  
The first, the Romish Zealot, a certain kind of ignorant Devote, to whom the very Fundamentals of his Religion are as unintelligible as the Language his Prayers are in. 'Tis true, Rome has a wiser sort of Disciples, of which is the person of Sense and Quality; but then considering ten to one his Ancestors were all of his opinion, he thinks it inconsistent with his glory either to examine or alter his Faith on any Terms, lest in so doing he should in effect call his Forefathers all Fools, and give his whole Generation the Lye. And thus by a certain kind of wild Irish Honour, who draw with their Horse's tails for the reputation of their Grandsires'; their infatuated Zeal is entailed upon 'em, and they hold their Titles by no other Tenure.  
The second sort is the ambitious Libertine, who always sides with the Rising Party; who though indeed he is of no Faith at all, yet appears as zealous for a Religion of Quality, as a Spanish Jew at Mass, and rather than stand out when his Interest is at stake, would e'en turn Mahometan, and almost circumcise to be Great.  
The last Class is a sort of People of neither Birth, Principles, nor Estates; a kind of indigent Bullies, who in all Companies run down Religion and Property, because they have neither Conscience nor Lands to lose; and therefore are for Change at any Rate, and desire Tumults only to scramble for Bread.  
If these are your Lordship's Enemies, I will not be so impertinent as to tell the world who are your Friends: But to excuse all the Discouragements you meet, if your Lordship's Truth and Desert are not always prosperous, 'tis only where your Oracles have had the fate of a Prophesying Cassandra.  
However, encouraged or depressed, your Lordship preserves an equal Serenity of Mind; and whereas the Malice of your Adversaries would cast an Aspersion on your glorious Toils, by saying your Zeal's too violent; your Lordship may justly make this Answer, That your Vehemence, like the fire in the Flint, never sparkled till it was struck from you, and that too by the severest Stroke, that all good men should most sensibly feel, your Country's imminent Danger. Nor is your continued Scrutiny into Reasons, Policies, Men, and Manners, the whole Fatigue of your Soul; for to draw the true portrait of the Earl of Shaftsbury, he is a perfect Character between the restless Alexander and the sullen Diogenes; you want the headlong Ambition of the first, and the Moroseness of the last; and between 'em both, at once you study and enjoy the world.  
And if amidst your more serious Affairs, so mean a Trifle as a Play may intrude under your Lordship's Roof, this, of all Poems, may most presume; for 'tis your Creature, and owes its very being to your Lordship: for as Plays and Poetry should make the discountenancing of the greatest Vices their chiefest Theme, 'tis your Lordship's unmasking of Rome that gave me the Light to choose my Story: And 'tis by your Lordship's influence too that it now appears in public: for had not your Lordship been an English Cicero, and by your timely Wisdom and Eloquence stood up in your Country's Deliverance, by this time perhaps our Catiline's had been victorious; and then the melancholy Muses must have cried, Inter Arma silent Artes.  
Or if at last the Theatre had e'er revived again, this profane Heretical Play must never have dared to have looked Light i'th' face.  
But if any of my Critical Readers should tell me that I have laid more to the charge of my Petticoat-Pope than Story will warrant; if such an Objection be, I have only this way to make my Excuse, and rectify my Mistake; that is, by begging her Successors to share it amongst 'em: for there have been Birds enough of that Feather through all Ages, to challenge all the borrowed Plumes I have given her, were they ten times as many as they are.  
But now, as I am a Stranger to your Lordship, should your Lordship ask who this bold Presumer is that lays this Poem at your feet; I am a Thing so nameless, and so inconsiderable, that I can only describe myself by Negatives. And first, I am no Temporizer, as your Lordship may believe by the choice of my Subject: next, I am no Politician; for that Scribbler must have no prospect to his Interest, who dares affront so numerous a Party that are so powerful a Support of the Stage: and lastly, I am no Hypocrite; for I write as I think: nor am I like Clodpate's Fiddler, that sings against his Conscience.  
I believe this plain dealing may have gained me a great many Enemies; but I cannot be concerned at their Malice, since it gives me the glory of publishing myself,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient, and most humbly devoted Servant, Elkanah Settle.   

Actor's Names.  

John, Lord Cardinal of Rheims, originally a German Lady, named Joanna Anglica; afterwards disguised in the habit of a Priest of the Benedictine Order, next a Cardinal, and lastly created Pope.  
Lorenzo, a Courtier of a mean Extract, preferred by the lust of Cardinal John, and privately her Inamorato.  
Amiran, a woman in the habit of a Page, a sworn Confident to the Intrigue of Lorenzo and Rheims.  
The Duke of Saxony, at present a Guest in Rome, brought thither for the love of a beautiful Roman Lady called Angeline, to whom he is newly married.  
Angeline, his Duchess.  
Carlo, his Servant.  
The Consistory of Cardinals.  
The old Duke of Saxony's Ghost.  
Priests, Heretics, Romans, Witnesses; with Messengers, Servants, and all other Attendants.   
The SCENE, ROME.   

Pope John VIII, etc▪  

ACT I.  Saxony and Angeline with Attendants. Sax. 
MY dearest Angeline, my softest Bride!  
Oh never did the Rising Sun salute  
A man more happy, or a day more glorious:  
Last night, our Nuptial Coronation night:  
Oh the vast Scenes of my immortal Joys!  
To what high Orb of Glory am I wrapped?  
So a translated Soul caught up to Heaven,  
Stands on the Battlements of his new Paradise,  
And with a wondering eye surveys how far  
He has left the distant under-world beneath him.  Ang. 
My dearest Lord, this is extremely kind,  
And I, methinks, have such an equal share  
In my dear Lords delight, that— oh my Lord,  
Something I had to say, but I want words,  
Oh let my Blushes speak the rest, for I am  
Too young in Love to talk.  Sax. 
Blush on, sweet Innocence.  
Blush till thy burning Cheeks  
Glow like the Incense on a Vestal Fire,  
Then in my Arms let thy warm sweets expire.  
But tho' I am—  
Encircled round with all the Harmony  
Of Sovereignty, Power, Wealth and Honours,  
Whilst Fortune sings above, and pleasures dance around me:  
Nay, to sum all, though I have Thee, a Treasure  
So far above th' enjoyment of a Crown  
(For Crowns the world has brighter, Beauties none.)  
Yet with all these I am not entirely happy.  
Oh, Angeline, I had a Father,  
Whose Blood, whose Royal Blood is unrevenged.  Ang. 
And does that melancholy thought arise  
At this untimely hour?  Sax. 
Yes, my sweet Angeline, I had a Father,  
A Prince so Excellent, so truly Noble,  
Too good for this base world, and yet from this  
Base world too early ravished to the Stars.  
For in reward of all his manly Virtues  
Was this unhappy Prince most basely poisoned:  
Nay, poisoned by a Priest, his savage Confessor.  
That cursed Slave that fed upon his Smiles,  
Filled the dire Bowl, and whilst the canting Villain  
Was whispering Heaven into his Ear, could lift  
Damnation to his Lips; but by what motives  
To such Ingratitude, Heaven only knows.  Ang. 
My Lord, I cannot blame your Noble Piety.  
But now consider seven long years are past,  
And in that time the mourning Robe should sure  
Be quite worn out.  Sax, 
Never, my Angeline.  
Methinks I've still the poisoner in my eye;  
That white-faced Dog, that venom-mouthed Mongrel:  
None of our burly, strutting Gownsmen,  
Who pampered with the Roman Altars Luxury,  
Swell and grow fat with the rich Church's Riot,  
But a thin meager Eunuch-featured Staruling  
Lean even with surfeiting, his Looks as pale  
As Envy, but his Soul as black as Hell.  Ang. 
Why these rough blasts t'uncalm your sweeter Airs!  
What though the Villain could escape your fury,  
And by his flight protect his impious head?  
For seven long years concealed from your just Rage;  
No doubt, ere this, Heaven's longer Arm has reached him,  
And finished your imperfect Vengeance for you;  
Punishing his Crimes by his untimely Fate.  Sax. 
That's not enough t'appease a Father's Ghost,  
Blood requires blood, and vengeance wields a Sword  
That cuts on both sides:  
Guilt should find Pains on earth, as well as Plagues in Hell.  
But where the safe Offenders lives  
Till the slow hand of Chance or Nature strikes,  
It blunts one edge of Fate.  Ang. 
Divert this sullen thought,  
And tell me who amongst our Bustling Cardinals  
That flock from all the Corners of the world  
To tug for Rome's bright Triple Diadem  
You think will next succeed.  Sax. 
I neither know, nor care.  
But could they choose a Pope that had the Keys  
Of Hell, as well as Heaven, and would be kind  
And lock that Poisoner from the infernal Jail,  
Till I had but one dear pull at's Heartstrings,  
Next my dear Angeline, I'd choose no Saint,  
On this side Heaven but him.  Enter several Cardinals, crossing the Stage. Ang. 
Still, my loved Lord, you make  
Yourself, and your poor Angeline uneasy.  
But see the Cardinal's flock to the Conclave.  
Now were I Confessor to these grave Lords,  
I would lay odds, there's not that Priest amongst'em  
But has so great an Itch to be a Pope,  
That on my conscience he'd shake hands with Heaven  
And fairly quit his hopes of Crowns above  
Proudly to lord it over Kings below.  
But see the pomp increases.  Enter John, Lord Cardinal of Rheims, with his Attendants, crossing the Stage. Sax, 
Look, my Angeline;  
Seest thou that face!  Angel. 
That gay effeminate Priest.  Sax. 
By all my hopes, by the dear charms of Vengeance  
My Father's poisoner: Carlo, dog that Cardinal  
And from his Followers inquire his name. Exit Servant.  
I've found him now: he lives, ye Gods, he lives.  
But is the Villain made a Cardinal!  
Good Heaven, can it consist with thy great Justice  
To dress a Monster in a Robe so Princely!  Ang. 
My dearest Love, no doubt he has been preserved  
By Miracle, advanced to all these Honours,  
Given as a Brand, not a Reward from Heaven;  
Raised only to this height to fall a greater Sacrifice.  Sax. 
Yes; my best Life, thou hast it. Had I stabbed  
This Monster in the fact;  
Or brought him in his naked Native Poverty,  
A Ragged Russet Priest to a Tribunal,  
How little had I paid toth' injured Manes  
Of the great Duke of Saxony. But now  
Thanks, my kind Stars, he is a Prince, a Cardinal,  
Fit for my Father's Victim. Oh, 'twere brave  
To stab him in the public Consistory.  Ang. 
How, my dear Lord!  Sax. 
Yet let me think again:  
So in the Senate fell the martyred Caesar:  
And that's a Fate too glorious for a Villain.  Ang. 
Oh, Sir, take heed of such a wild revenge  
Lest taking of his life should hazard yours.  
And do you love your Angeline no better  
Than to endanger her dear Lord?  Sax. 
Thy Reasons and thy Love shall guide my hand:  
I'll take thy kind advice and move more calmly.  
Rashness and Vengeance never were Allies:  
Revenge is witty when it walks, not flies.  
Consider too I am in a Christian World;  
The Court of Rome, the Head and Spring of Justice.  
A Poniard and a Sword are Arms too bright:  
A Scaffold and an Axe shall do me right. Exeunt.  

SCENE II.  Cardinal John, Lorenzo and Amiran. John. 
Now my best Love, we are in our private state,  
I thy kind Juno, thou my faithful Jove,  
And our sworn Loyal Ganymede alone,  
And now we are ourselves.  Lor. 
Yes, my dear masked Divinity:  
We are the only two that know what Treasure  
This borrowed Casket holds, and I the Lord that wear it.  Joh. 
Thus far has my Disguise, and my Designs  
Deceived the blinded world; for seven long years  
My Arts and Sex concealed: nay, and to heighten  
The miracle, I have lived an undiscovered Woman,  
Bred amongst Priests, high fed, hot-blooded Priests,  
Those long-winged Hawks at all the Female Game:  
Yet I've defied their keenest eyes to tract me:  
I could grow proud with the imagination,  
And talk as big as a victorious Lover.  Lor. 
But how much prouder would you talk, should Rome's  
Great Lottery in this Election throw  
Her Diadem at your Feet.  Joh. 
That were Fates Masterpiece.  
Glory, bewitching Glory; oh, for the Popedom!  
Bring me some God, or what else power beside,  
Some kinder Devil, but toth' Roman Chair,  
And I am thy Slave for ever. How 'twould please me  
To reign the Christian World's dread Thunderer all  
The day, and thy soft Venus all the night.  Lor. 
My best dear Angel:  
Alas, who knows but fortune may be kind;  
And the fair Lot fall to this fairer hand.  Joh. 
Yes, 'twould be kind indeed; grant That, and I  
Have all my wishes in both world's complete.  
Yes, I could make a Pope, and like that proud  
Stupendious thing sit at the Helm of Heaven,  
And with my Breath unlock the Gates of Paradise.  
Let 'em but bring me golden Offerings,  
And I would make Heaven's Crystal Hinges fly:  
Fill my Exchequer, and my Purgatory  
Should soon be empty. Yet methinks for our  
Stolen pleasures sake, I should be kind to Love,  
And sell my pardons cheap to poor expiring Lovers.  Lor. 
The Subject gives you mirth; I see your Transports  
Have made you witty.  Joh. 
Yes, and serious too.  
Could I but reach the Roman Diadem;  
I'd sit within my Rome's seven Hills as glorious  
As once the famed Semiramis within  
Her Babylonian Towers. Her Female Hand  
Did the world's Sceptre guide, and why not mine?  
A Kingly Soul her borrowed manhood wore;  
Whilst like a God she sat within her Cloud,  
And moved her world beneath her.  Enter Servant. Ser. 
The Duke of Saxony desires admittance.  Joh. 
Oh, in these lines he tracks his Father's poisoner.  
I see seven years have not quite worn my Face out.  
Admit the harmless Blusterer. Exit Servant.  
— 'Tis true;  
Once two whole years he had me in the chase.  
Then but an inconsiderable Monk,  
Too weak to grapple with so fierce a Hunter,  
Through all Disguises, Shapes and Names I dodged him,  
Till the cold scent made him give o'er the Game.  
But I am above thee now. Yes Prince, I had  
Intelligence how the famed Roman Beauty  
Had brought thee from thy Saxony to Rome:  
And well foresaw this Face here would soon rouse  
A sleeping Bloodhound. But, alas, weak Champion,  
We come prepared to meet thy feeble Rage.  Enter Saxony, ushered in by the Attendants of Rheims. Sax. 
Lord Cardinal of Rheims, for to that name  
Your prodigal Stars have called you, Oh that Spectre!  Joh. 
Young Saxony go on.  Sax. 
Yes, Cardinal.  
Hither I come to wake your drowsy Conscience,  
And tell you, that this Scarlet Mantle shrowds  
That cankered Fiend that stung my Father dead.  Joh. 
How, my young Lord!  Sax. 
Yes, my young poisoner.  Joh. 
Before I answer to this peal of Thunder,  
I ought t'examine if I am more than Man,  
For Flesh and Blood should tremble at these sounds.  Sax. 
And does not thine?  John. 
Mine!  Sax. 
Yes, thine, proud Priest, does not a rising damp  
From the cold Vault that holds my Father's Bones,  
Freeze thy black Blood, and make thy staggering Frame  
Shrink at my Vengeance.  Joh. 
Harmless Thunderer, no:  
The feeble blast flies o'er this Princely Tower,  
And not one Column shakes.  Sax. 
Triumphant Impudence!  
Can I bear this! at thy rank Soul. Draws.  Lor. 
Forbear this Insolence.  Sax. 
Unhand me Ruffians.  Lor. 
Hold, desperate Lord. Lift but an Arm once more  
Against that Life, and by the Gods, thy Soul  
Attends thy Father's Ghost.  Sax. 
How. Braved by thee!  
And what art thou, Domestic, small dependent  
On that proud Thing; Heaven, like the Sun in Egypt,  
Has warmed that venomous Dirt into a Monster.  
And thou'rt a Bubble in the Mud beneath him.  Lor. 
How, saucy Lord!  Joh. 
Lorenzo, hold. Young Saxony, no more.  Sax. 
Dared by his Slaves! can I bear this, and live.  
Some Ague chill my Veins, or some kind Palsy  
Unnerve my Arm, lest it outrun my Reason.  Lor. 
Rash Prince, this Fury does not fit this place.  
Think where you are!  Amir. 
Yes, Sir, think where you are.  
Within the Palace of a Roman Prelate,  
A place too sacred—  Sax. 
Peace, ye Limbs of Vengeance.  
Dare you presume to prate? Because that Wizard  
Has to damnation signed and sealed his Soul;  
To fill the pomp of his infernal State,  
He has wisely bargained with his Patron Devils  
For this young Imp, and that tall Fiend to guard him.  Joh. 
Hold, Sir, we understand your provocations:  
And therefore can forgive these wild Excursions.  
But to restore your peace, you shall have Justice.  Sax. 
I will have Justice, Priest.  John. 
First I consider you're the Heir of Saxony;  
And to all Princely Blood my Soul pays Honour.  
Next, you have a Father lost, a murdered Father:  
And to all Greatness in Distress, Humanity  
Commands my Pity. Lastly, I am a Churchman,  
And should disgrace the Sacred Robe I wear,  
Should I attempt to stop the course of Justice,  
Or make the groaning Ghost of Saxony  
Unsatisfied. Well, Sir, I am your Mark:  
Now name me both my Judge, and my Tribunal.  Sax. 
Bold Cardinal, I take you at your word:  
And bring my Cause before the Consistory:  
There, if thou darest appear—  John. 
Dare! yes, as cheerfully  
As a young Lover on his Bridal Night.  
But meet me quickly there. For know, young Prince,  
I am your Accuser now, and not you mine.  
Your Tongue has raised a Blister on my Name,  
Cankered my Glory with the Brand of Murderer,  
Nor can I come too soon toth' Ear of Justice.  
Make haste, young Duke; for I have a wounded Fame  
Must be made whole again.  Sax. 
Yes, my brisk Prelate,  
Meet me this hour.  John. 
This hour I'll meet you there.  Sax. 
And then— Exit Saxony.  John. 
How I could laugh at this poor Animal.  
Do; hunt me close: and scent thy Father's Blood.  
But know, hot fool, I have the Priest to play yet;  
A Roman Dance to lead you. I could hug myself  
For my rare Mischiefs. Oh my fertile Brain!  
Why was not I the first created Woman?  
'Sdeath, I'd have met the subtle plotting Serpent,  
And by my Arts blown up the shallow Fiend:  
Thus from its doom the threatened world recall;  
And countermine the lost Creation's fall. Exeunt.  The Scene changes to the Consistory. First Cardinal. 
Brethren and Partners in this Royal Sessions;  
This Fair Divine Assembly, in the Name  
Of Albert Duke of Saxony:  
I bring a Cause before this great Tribunal,  
Worthy the Ear of Heaven, his Princely Father's Murder.  Card. 2. 
My Lord of Milans Reverenceship speaks well:  
But why, my Lord, this Trial at this hour:  
Think of the properer Business of the Day,  
The new Election of our Heavenly Vicar.  
Does not that Throne stand empty? By my holy Dame  
'Tis fit that first we set a Head on headless Rome.  Card. 3. 
My good Lord Cardinal's Reasons would be just  
In any case but this; but know, my Lord,  
It is a member of our own Society,  
That stands accused, the Cardinal of Rheims.  
And shall we entertain a Murderer,  
Within these Sacred Walls, and at this time too;  
When Heavens Commissions are just issuing out  
To choose a Brow from out this Royal Synod  
To wear th'Imperial Mitre, and to Reign  
Rome's Lord, Heaven's Chancellor, and the great Keeper  
Of the bright Seals of Paradise. And shall we  
Amongst this glorious Constellation harbour  
A Murderer, have his black impious hand  
Be mixed amongst these Princely Candidates,  
And grasp at th'hallowed Roman Diadem?  Card. 3. 
You, my good Lord of Milan, speak the sense  
Of the whole Consistory. We and Heaven  
Do think it just, that the infected Body  
Be purged before we consecreate the Head.  
Stand forth then, Albert, Duke of Saxony,  
And John, Lord Cardinal of Rheims, stand forth.  Enter on one side the Stage the Duke of Saxony: on the other John Lord Cardinal of Rheims with their respective Train. Sax. 
Most Reverend Lords, Rome's ever awful Senate  
From whose wide Rays of never setting Glory  
Truth, Faith, Religion gilled th'enlightened Globe.  
Hither I bring to your divinest Justice  
A Treason of the deepest blackest die  
That Night e'er sheltered, or the day ere blushed at.  
Committed by that impious Prelate John▪  
Lord Cardinal of Rheims.  Card. 2. 
Boldly and bravely.  Sax. 
But e'er I prove the monstrous Fact, I have  
One Grace to beg from this Devout Assembly.  
Not that I need to beg it. 'Tis a Boon  
You'll grant unasked, and yet my zeal must speak.  Card. 1. 
Speak freely, ask with reason, and obtain.  Sax. 
Then I implore, that not the Brother-Name  
Of Cardinal, his Title, Robe or Office  
Plead for him, make this whole untainted Body  
Be over tender of a gangrened Limb,  
Because a part of itself.  Card. 4. 
My Lord, you wrong us.  
Know who we are, Heaven's Representatives.  
And can you think the Tree of Paradise  
Would ever cherish a rank spurious Branch!  
Or we permit a bloody wounded Straggler  
To herd for shelter 'mongst the purer Flock.  
No Saxony; we drive him out, and give him  
An open Field and Law for Life or Death.  Card. 1. 
Now, Duke of Saxony, plead and be heard.  Sax. 
Thus then— that now Lord Cardinal of Rheims,  
Seven years ago, a Benedictine Monk,  
Was Confessor to my unhappy Father,  
That Cardinal, now disguised by the false name  
Of John, more like a Robber than a Christian,  
Was then called Theodore. 'Twas in that name  
He grew acquainted with my Princely Father.  
Thus blessed, thus honoured, by a rise so sudden  
He won so far my Royal Father's Favour;  
His Ear, his Hand, his Soul was all his own.  
But by what Magic Arts so false a Snake  
Could twine within that Royal Prince's Heart,  
Just Heaven above, and his own Hells within him  
Can only tell.  Card. 2. 
To this your Answer, Lord.  John. 
Thus far I own my brave Accuser just:  
I was this Prince's Father's Confessor,  
His Favourite, Friend, Confident.  
Nay, the whole Circle of his Deeds, Thoughts, Councils,  
All centred in my heart.  Sax. 
And in return  
To all this Honour, hear his black Ingratitude;  
One Evening, a cursed hour damned from Eternity,  
This treacherous Sycophant being alone  
With my unhappy▪ Father in his Closet,  
To make their privacy more cheerful,  
A Bowl of Wine was called for, and about  
Three hours this Conference held, till night adjourned  
The Consult, and so silenced 'em to Bed.  
Thus parted, scarce the Morning Sun could wake,  
Or frighted, waked too soon, but this Alarm  
Filled the whole Court, the Duke, the Duke is poisoned.  
We found him raving, all his Veins on Fire,  
His restless Bed more like his Funeral Pile;  
His Priest being called, we found his Chamber empty:  
By th'help of night the Hellish Fiend was vanished.  
But oh, he had left his Sulphurous Brand behind him;  
For that was burning in my Father's Heart.  Card. 2. 
There's horror in this Deed. Now by my Holy Dame,  
A thundering Accusation. But what proofs,  
What Witnesses for all this Tragic Story.  Sax. 
All his Attendants, Nobles, Menials, almost  
The whole sad Court of Saxony were all  
Spectators of their Royal Masters Fall.  
But let these few, the Representatives  
Of a whole Mourning Dukedom, speak their knowledge.  Card. 3. 
Stand forth, and speak. One of the Attendants steps out.  Att. 1. 
To these blessed Walls I bow,  
Rome's ever Sacred Vatican.  Card. 1. 
What art thou!  Att. 1. 
A Gentleman; for twenty years a Servant  
To the great Dukes of Saxony.  Card. 3. 
Are they all sworn?  Priest. 
My Lord, they are.  Card. 3. 
Proceed.  Att. 
All that my Prince has said against that Priest,  
Is Oracle, only more truth, and less  
Mysterious; and to lay his Father's Murder  
More close to that ungrateful Monster's Charge;  
When he was told the conscious Monk was fled,  
Amidst his dying Groans these Accents fell,  
And is my Friend, my Priest, my Murderer!  
Heaven, if the Priestly Robe, your own bright Livery  
Can shroud such Treason, bring me to that Throne,  
Where th'unoffending, untaught Infidel  
Sits crowned, whilst the Apostate Christian burns.  
This we all swear to.  All. 
All.  Card. 1. 
Degenerate World,  
Oh, whither art thou fallen!  Att. 2. 
Hear Me, my Lords.  
I have had the honour many years together  
To have that murdered Prince no less my charge,  
Than that false Confessors; only this difference;  
I was his Healths more faithful, than that Traitor  
His Soul's Physician; and as my last Office  
To my dead Lord, with my own hand through his  
Dissected Veins I tracked the Drug that killed him.  
He died by poison.  Sax. 
Truth more evident no  
Tribunal ever heard, no God e'er punished.  Card. 1. 
Crimes terrible, proofs strong, and circumstances  
Invincible. Rheims, What defence to this!  Joh. 
That Saxonies great Duke died by my hand,  
I own:  
But that he fell by Treason, I deny.  
'Tis the intention of the mind, and not  
The deed that makes the crime. Who but in thought  
Dares lift a hand against a Sovereign Head,  
Is both a Rebel to his Prince, and God.  
But he  
That strikes a Dagger to a Traitor's Heart,  
Though ne'er so Princely born, does Heaven good service.  
Know then, that Traitor was the Saxon Duke,  
And I that Traitor's Executioner.  Sax. 
Traitor? to what! to whom! What means the Villain!  John. 
Traitor to Rome, to Rome's Supremacy,  
To Rome's Religion, and Rome's God a Traitor.  Sax. 
Oh execrable Dog.  Card. 1. 
Mark what you say, bold Lord, take heed you lay not  
An Imputation on a Princely Family, To Rheims.  
Add crimes to crimes, and with envenomed Breath  
Attempt to play the poisoner o'er again.  John. 
Then let the injured Majesty of Rome  
Know, the old Duke of Saxony held a League  
Confederate with the German Traitor Damasus.  Card. 2. 
How that Arch-Heretick, that Arrian Monster,  
Rebel to Rome and Heaven! some three years since  
Burnt at Ravenna.  John. 
Yes, my Lord, the same.  Sax. 
This, if the Traitor proves—  John. 
This, if I prove not  
Shame, and the public Gibbet brand the Liar.  Card. 1. 
Go on, thou bold Impeacher.  Sax. 
Yes, go on.  
Show thy rank Gaul, and the thin Veil that shrowds it.  John. 
Thus let me speak. Produces Letters.  Card. 2. 
Ha! what are these.  John. 
The whole Conspiracy.  Card. 3. 
Let 'em be read.  Card. 4. 
A Packet  
Of Letters to the Duke of Saxony.  Card. 3. 
Let 'em be read.  Card. 4. 
To Albert, Duke of Saxony.  Reads. 
Sir,  
I Cannot express the transport your Royal Excellence gives me, when you tell me your Army is completely raised, and that you are ready in their head to strike your Dagger in the Gates of Rome, and lay the Scarlet prostitute in Ashes—  Card. 2. 
Monstrum horrendum!  Reads on. 
All the Levies I can raise amongst the Loyal German Christians shall not be wanting to carry on so holy a War. Continue still to believe, that Rome's usurped Supremacy, as it began by the grand Rebel Phocas, as it commenced by a Traitor, so it is maintained by an Impostor, whilst that very ground that falsely styles itself the sacred Sheep-fold, is now made the public Mart of Souls, the Royal Exchange for a Trade into Heaven, where Religion toils at the Mint, and Holiness sits at the Receipt of Custom, whilst the broad Seal for everlasting pardons is stamped in Gold. In fine, the Pope with all his Limbs, the Cardinals, is but a growing Hydra; and whilst your Excellence continues your noble Resolution of being the Hercules that shall destroy that Hydra, you shall not want the prayers, nor assistance of,  
My Lord Your Excellencies dutiful and faithful Slave, Damasus.  Sax. 
Oh hear me, Lords.  Card. 1. 
You shall be heard anon, let him read on.  Card. 1. 
To Albert, Duke of Saxony. Reads.  
Whereas your Royal Excellence is pleased  
T'espouse the Cause of Truth and Heaven against  
The false usurping Rome—  Card. 2. 
All the same brand.  
The same black mark of Hell, we'll hear no more.  Sax. 
All Forgery, rank Forgery, damned Impostor.  
My Royal Father ne'er received one syllable  
Of those forged Libels, held no Heretic Leagues  
With any German Traitor.  Card. 2. 
But, bold Defendant, speak, how do you prove  
These monstrous Libels true; this League; these Letters  
Received by Saxony, and writ by Damasus.—  John. 
By these two honest Gentlemen.  Card. 1. 
What are you?  Gentl. 1. 
Two Germans, formerly th'unhappy Servants  
Of an accursed Master th'heretic Damasus.  
Till Heaven by his just punishment had warned  
Our wandering Souls, and our lost sense restored.  Card. 1. 
And by your Oaths those were your Master's hand.  Gent. 2. 
My Lord, they are.  Card. 3. 
You saw him write 'em?  Gent. 1. 
Yes.  Card. 4. 
You knew the whole Conspiracy 'twixt him  
And Saxony?  Gent. 2. 
We did.  Card. 4. 
Their walks, their motions?  Gent. 1. 
All.  Card. 4. 
And Rome's Subversion was their Theme?  Gent. 1. 
It was.  Card. 4. 
Lord Cardinals, Romans, Brothers, Churchmen, Friends,  
Can such things be, and Roman Hearts not tremble,  
Could such a Rebel Duke deserve to live!  Sax. 
By all that's good, I'll stake my Crown, my Life,  
My Soul, these Slaves are false, let 'em but prove  
One Syllable in my wronged Father's Hand  
To countenance this Conspiracy:  
Which if they do, make Me your Martyr too;  
Doom me t' a Bowl of my own Father's poison,  
Administered by the same Hangman's hand.  Card 1. 
But can you witness aught of Saxon's Letters  
Received in countenance, and answer to  
This Treason!  Gent. 1. 
Yes, my Lord.  Card. 2. 
Several?  Gent. 2. 
Many.  
Which, we as Confidents and Parties  
In the Confederacy, perused and read.  Card. 2. 
Can you produce those Letters?  Gent. 1. 
No, my Lord.  
For still the cautious Damasus made his Soul  
His Treason's Cabinet, all dangerous Papers  
No sooner read, but burnt.  Cacd. 3. 
Politic Devil!  Sax. 
Excellent proof!  
Oh, Roman Prelates, if you've Truth, Faith, Honour,  
Remove this Cloud that shades my Father's Fame:  
This is all Cheat, Disguise, rank counterfeit.  
My Royal Father was a constant Catholic,  
His Faith and Life incorporate, his Principles  
Sucked in from Rome's own Breast.  Card. 4. 
So 'tis a Sign.  Sax. 
And in some base revenge, perhaps on purpose  
For his unshaken constancy to Rome,  
By that false Heretic, and this falser Priest,  
Those very Papers were received, and sent  
My Father's Soul a Stranger to the Villainy.  
Low as his Grave throw down their feeble Batteries;  
Oh, Romans, hold the Scale of Justice right;  
Weigh the true value of a Prince's Honour,  
A Prince's Blood and Life.  Card. 3. 
Bold German, is Rome's Wisdom, and Rome's Conclave  
To be instructed how to judge, or act?  Sax. 
And for that Army which my Father raised,  
'Twas all designed to fright our ancient Foe,  
The warlike Vandal.  Rheims. 
That was the pretence,  
But Rome's Subversion, and Religion's Ruin  
Was the Design.  Card. 4. 
And my good Lord of Rheims,  
'Twas in prevention of a dangerous Heresy,  
And to revenge our injured Church, you gave  
The Duke this poison?  Rheims, 
Yes, my Lord, I did.  
But, oh! it grieved my Soul to kill my Prince:  
My Friend, my Patron; nay, my generous Patron:  
But in a cause so just, for Rome's bright Glory,  
Our Mother Churches Right, I'd not have spared a Brother,  
Father, Friend, Sovereign; in a cause so good  
Kingdoms should groan, and Monarch's set in Blood.  Card. 1. 
Come to our Arms—  Card. 2. 
T' our Arms, dear Lord of Rheims. Hugging him.  Card. 3. 
Religion's Bulwark—  Card. 4. 
Truth's Defender, welcome.  Card. 1. 
Rome's Patriot, and Heaven's Champion, ever welcome  
Bright Son of Fame, we and our Saints are all  
Your Debtors for this meritorious Service.  Sax. 
Is this your Doom! Churchmen you call yourselves;  
Is this a Church Reward for murdered Majesty?  
Oh I could rave! but Lords, I'll reason calmly.  
Grant those false Libelers, and this poisoner honest.  
Yes, grant my Father that lewd thing they paint him:  
Nay more, suppose th'Almighty Room has power  
To judge a King, and doom a Sovereign Head.  Card. 1. 
Suppose it, Saxon!  Sax. 
Yes, suppose it, Priest.  
Were he a Criminal, why were not all  
Those intercepted Letters sent to Rome,  
And he as an Offender fairly tried,  
Called to the Bar, to Rome's King-killing Bar,  
And his Accusers met him face to face!  Rheims. 
T'have waged in public 'gainst so great an Adversary,  
Had been t'have had our Cause and martyred Throats  
Both silenced, Treason hushed, Truth undiscovered,  
And Rome for ever unrevenged.  Card. 1. 
How, German,  
A private man impeach an Heretic King,  
Call him to Law, and face to face convict him.  
Does the weak Traveller face the roaring Lion,  
Or spotted Leopard, and grapple Arm to Arm?  
No, foolish Prince,  
Does he not straight fly to some hollow Cave,  
Or climb some Cedar's Top, from whose safe stand  
Does he not watch a lucky hour, and shoot  
Th'unwary Savage dead, or in a Foil  
The snared Devourer seize; and Sir,  
Are Heretic Kings less Brutes, less Savages  
Than Lions, Tigers, Leopards, or less  
To be destroyed than they? or must Rome kill  
By open hostile Arms? The Church's strength  
Lies not in Spear, or Lance, or ponderous Steel.  
A Pebble slung from out a righteous hand  
May strike a Giant dead.  Sax. 
How, Roman Prelates,  
Are these your Principles?  
Some pitying Saint keep in my boiling rage,  
And wall me round with Adamant.  
Church Hypocrites! false Bastard Prophets, hear me.  Card. 1. 
Take him away, and stop the Railer's Mouth.  Card. 2. 
No, let him stay, and hear the voice of Rome.  Card. 1. 
Is it by me you speak!  All Card. 
Speak, Lord of Milan.  Card. 1. 
First, our whole Consistory votes her Thanks  
To this illustrious Lord. Next, as a monument  
t'an Heretics infamy; if the Boul that held  
The sacred Drug can be by art or Gold  
Recovered, we decree, that it be consecrated,  
As an Eternal Relic to the Chapel at  
Loretto: Lastly, that the sleeping Bones  
Of the dead Saxon Heretic, unworthy  
To mix with the untainted Royal Dust  
Of his great Ancestors, be taken up,  
Removed, and buried in unhallowed Ground.  Sax. 
Disturb my Father's Dust, what Cerberus Dog amongst ye  
Dares growl a sound so impious?  
Ye Cardinal Wolves, tear up his Royal Bones,  
Do, if you dare! keep your Prerogative  
To hector Kingdoms, and to hag-ride Kings.  
But know,  
We are too great, and Saxony too honest.  
That Bloodhound Priest, that Jackall Monk that dares  
With his envenomed Claws but touch his Tomb,  
By all the Conclave Devils, and the Ghost  
Of my dead Father, dies upon a Gibbet.  Card. 2. 
And are we threatened too! By the Divinity  
Of Rome, bold Arrogance, thy forfeit Head  
But thrust him out, and shut our Gates against him  The Scene shuts upon him, and the Consistory closes. Sax. 
Farewell, ye Scarlet Bloodhounds:  
Are these the Lords that yoke the Necks of Kings!  
How senseless is that dull Imperial Head  
That makes his Sceptre to the Crosier bow,  
By Heavens he's both a Coward and a Slave.  
Rome's upstart Idol 'bove his Throne he rears,  
And servilely creates the God he fears,  
Down goes his Majesty, and down his Fame,  
Pope is the King, and Monarch but the name. Exit.   
Finis Actus Primi.   

ACT II.  Saxony and Angeline. Sax. 
OH Rome, thou once great Mistress of the World:  
How much thy ancient Royal Capitol  
Exceeds th'adulterate Vatican; when Pagans  
And Infidels possessed thee, they were honest.  
The blind Idolaters that kneeled and prayed  
To their deaf, senseless, Molten Gods, were Saints  
To this Church Spawn; this Nest of Scarlet Tyrants.  Ang. 
Indeed my Lord, this strange inverted Justice  
Is very hard, but bear it like a man.  Sax. 
Yes, when I am treated like a man; but Princes  
Are less than Dogs, where base-born Priests control.  
I and my Cause with all my loud tongued Wrongs  
Spurned from their presence, and my Father's Blood,  
Of that small value, that the Purple Juice  
That fills the pampered Prelates Epicurean Gorge,  
Is spilled with more Concern than the Blood of Princes.  Ang. 
Calm your untimely rage; when Ills are past  
Redressing, and all other hope forsakes us,  
Patience is then the wise man's last companion.  Sax. 
Patient! oh never, till Rome's Consistory  
And Justice fill one Throne, and that must be  
When contraries unite, When Truth and Falsehood  
Incorporate. Suppose my Princely Father  
Had been an Heretic: but if my Soul  
Dares play the Prophet, 'twas some private malice  
That gave the Tragic Blow: and this pretended Heresy;  
Some false Machine that moved the specious Scene.  
But grant it true; why was he not accused,  
Summoned and called before th'all judging Rome,  
And doomed by Law; if Rome can judge a King?  
Had he been weighed in Justice equal Balance,  
And found too light, than to have hoist  
The mounting Scale, and tripped him up to Heaven  
Had been a doom  
Worthy the Glory of the Triple Diadem.  
But to be killed by a Poisoner and a Traitor,  
And loesses crimes by greater crimes be punished;  
Yes, the whole Conclave hug him for the fact:  
Come to our Arms, t'our Arms, dear Lord of Rheims:  
We and our Saints are all your Debtors.  Ang. 
Enough, my Lord!  Sax. 
Yet, what confounds all humane sense to think  
The Papal Crown's fixed on this Monster's Brow:  
Nay, raised too by the merit of a Poisoner:  
My Father's blood advanced him to the Popedom:  
Crowned him Heaven's Vicar for Hell's blackest Murder.  Ang. 
Yet hold my Lord.  Sax. 
With these damned Principles a begging Friar  
Shall stab a King, a lousy tattered Monk  
Be a Monarch's Judge and Executioner.  
Is this the Justice of th' Imperial Mitre!  
Covents and Cloisters thus are Rome's Tribunals,  
Daggers and Poisons are their Axe and Fasces,  
Palaces their Scaffolds, and the Priestly Robe  
The Hangman's Livery.  Enter Lorenzo, Priests and Officers. Lor. 
Seize him. They seize him·  Ang. 
Ha! What are these?  Lor. 
I come to tell you, that your loud-mouthed Scandals  
'Gainst Rome, and Rome's Imperial Dignity  
Have pulled down vengeance on your Blasphemies.  
It is his Holiness pleasure that you stand  
Both excommunicated and deposed,  
Your Titles, Honours, Principalities  
All forfeited and lost, no more the Duke  
Of Saxony, but a private Malefactor,  
Mine and Rome's Prisoner.  Ang. 
Cruel Stars!  Sax. 
Unhand me.  Lor. 
'Tis too late.  Sax. 
Too late!  
By what authority, officious Slave  
To thy proud Lord, am I thus basely seized.  
Against all Honour, Conscience, Law, Religion?  
Oh, the inhospitable Walls of Rome▪  Lor. 
By the Imperial Roman Prelacy,  
In justice to your impious Execrations.  Sax. 
Traitor, 'tis false, Rome's boasting Tyrant lies.  
If I have done ill, I am a Sovereign Prince;  
And faults of Princes stand accountable  
Only to Heaven; and that too not till death.  
But Rome can both depose and murder Kings;  
So far that pride that falsely styles itself  
Servant of Servants borrows a Prerogative  
Above its God; such Blasphemies are lodged  
In this infallible and universal.  Lor. 
These dangerous outrages ill fit your fate,  
But notwithstanding all your just Deserts,  
Hear the soft sounds of Mercy, which I bring:  
His tender Holiness in commiseration  
Both of your blooming youth, and Princely Blood,  
Tells you by me, if prostrate on your knees  
You implore pardon both from Heaven and him,  
That done, the bright Divinity of Rome  
Stoops from his Throne, and lays his Thunder by  
T'accept your penitence; his Royal Mercy  
Shines pity on you.  Sax. 
Oh this proud Church-Gyant!  Lor. 
This expiatory Sacrifice performed  
Your Honours, and your freedom are restored.  Sax. 
Unparallelled Arrogance. Draw me, some Painter,  
This Church Leviathan, draw him at full length;  
In some deep Ocean, bottomless as Hell,  
And wide as Worlds for his vast Bulk to move in;  
Paint his each breath a Storm, each Rowl a Tide,  
And every Gust from his impetuous Nostrils  
A Mountain Sea, then write Pope underneath.  Lor. 
To this your Answer?  Ang. 
Oh, my dearest Lord,  
Remember you're the Sovereign Duke of Saxony,  
Move not one step below your Princely Honour  
To save ten thousand lives.  Lor. 
A divine Creature!  
And worth the pawning of a Soul t'enjoy. Aside  Ang. 
Let him go on, and lodge us in a Dungeon  
As far removed from Light as is the Pope from Heaven;  
Before we'll stoop but to one abject thought,  
Or bend a Knee t'a Royal Father's Murderer.  Lor. 
Gods, a rare Girl; a prize, an excellent prize. Aside  Sax. 
Light of my world, how charming is thy pride?  
But doubt not my best life, when I do aught  
Below the Glory of my Father's Son,  
Sink me, just Heaven, below my Father's Fate.  Lor. 
Convey him hence. This Lady is my charge.  Sax. 
Must we two part? Is this your Tyrant's doom!  Lor. 
Till satisfactory Atonement's made  
To his offended Holiness she ne'er  
Must see you more; but that just debt once paid,  
Then live and love for ever.  Sax. 
Oh this Thunderstroke!  Ang. 
Farewell, my Soul, my dearest Lord farewell:  
Keep up your courage, guard your Royal Honour:  
Think not one thought below your Princely Birth  
To save your Princess Life, rather behold  
My martyred Blood bedew the sprinkled Sky.  
Rather in deaths long Night, and the dark Grave  
Our Fame still white our unstained dust we'll lay;  
Then move inglorious t'a new Nuptial Day.  Sax. 
My Heart's best Blood, and my Souls dearest Oracle,  
Farewell; if Heaven e'er joins what Hell divides,  
We meet in Glory, or we part for ever. Exeunt severally.  

SCENE II.  The Conclave with the Ceremony of the Pope's instalment. Card. 1. 
Hail, Heaven's great Vicar, uncontrolled disposer  
Of Crowns and Thrones both temporal and immortal.  Card. 2. 
Thou wanderers Night-Star, and Believers Sun  
Of Glory.  Card. 1. 
The Lord of Souls and Worlds, universal Head  
Of Empires, Principalities, Powers, Potentates.  Card. 3. 
Thou prop and pillar of mortality.  Card. 4. 
And Basis of Eternity, all hail.  Omnes. 
All hail.  Card. 2. 
To crown all these;  
Thou Servant of the Servants of the Saints,  
All hail.  Omnes: 
All hail.  Card. 1. 
By thee the humble reigns, the proud dethroned:  
The Loyal Proselyte fenced in with glory,  
And the Apostatised Rebellious Heretic  
Shut out from Hopes and Heaven.  Pope. 
My gracious Lords, since Rome's Imperial Power  
You to my undeserving hand have given;  
For my first Service to the Church and Heaven  
How have I merited the prize I have won,  
How little has my humble Nonage done?  
When I  
In Saxons Blood did my young hand imbrue,  
'Twas but the Snake I in my Cradle slew.  
But now our glorious work begins; oh Rome  
Our vast Herculean Labours are to come.  Card. 3. 
Spoke like the Lord of Rome, your Godlike self,  
The sole Vicegerent of Omnipotence.  Pope. 
Rome's sacred Head, and Rome's Supremacy  
Is the World's true invincible Alcides:  
Those fabulous wonders Story once did give  
To that feigned Hero, in our Greatness live.  
Error's black Sink is that Augean Stable  
Which Rome's Divinity can only cleanse.  
The growling Pagan, and Fanatic Snarler  
The vanquished Dogs of Hell, the numerous Heads  
Of Schism and Heresy the conquered Hydra;  
And when  
We the rank blood of Heretic Monarchs spill,  
'Tis then, 'tis then  
We the true Nemeaean Monsters kill:  
When to sum all, to our sole charge is given  
The absolute Trust, and the whole weight of Heaven  
The wearied Atlas we alone supply,  
And on Rome's Neck rests the supported Sky. The Scene shuts.   
Finis Actus Secundi.   

ACT III.  Pope, Lorenzo, Amiran. Pope. 
THou look'st as if thou wouldst survey my pomp,  
How dost thou like the Port our Greatness bears,  
Do we not play the Royal Masquerader nobly?  Lor. 
Above all admiration. Wonder itself  
Must want a Tongue to praise you to the Life;  
And time that eats up Monuments, wants power  
To bound your deathless fame.  Pope. 
I thank thee, honest Flatterer.  Lor. 
But, Madam,  
You know I've loved you almost two whole years;  
Yet what's most wondrous, even in your embraces,  
Am ignorant what Goddess I enjoy.  
I've seen but the last page of your great life;  
The miraculous cause of your Sex's Transformation,  
Your setting out in your prodigious Race,  
And the first mover of your Orb of Glory,  
You have concealed from your poor Loyal Slave.  
Why thus reserved, or why reserved to me?  
Be kind at last, and satisfy my long  
Just curiosity. Come bless my Ears,  
And let me read the mighty Volume through  
Not that I care three Drachmas for the Story,  
Only I'd seem impertinently kind,  
And buzz about the ears of what I am weary of Aside.  
To hide my passion for the Saxon Duchess:  
Perhaps indeed the Story may have Love in't,  
And that has kept it from my longing ears:  
Alas, I am sensible you never came▪  
A Virgin to my Arms; and you may safely  
And boldly own my happy Predecessors.  
I can't be jealous of forsaken Rivals,  
Since now you're only mine.  Pope, 
Well, my Lorenzo,  
Thou hast conquered me. Attend, and glut thy wonder.  
Know I was born at Mentz in Germany,  
My Virgin Name Joanna Anglica,  
My Quality Noble, and my Fortune's ample,  
My Beauty dazzling; and to crown all these,  
My Soul was brighter than the Shrine that held it.  
Heaven gave me those prodigious depths of knowledge,  
That infinite Mass of Sense, that with disdain  
I left my native barbarous Germany,  
To search the Treasures of the Learned Athens.  Lor. 
These Virtues marked you out your Sex's wonder.  Pope. 
Yes, I already seemed designed for Greatness;  
As many Languages as Rome's proud Hills  
My Virgin Nonage spoke. As many Arts and Sciences  
As the famed Stagyrite studied to inspire Aristotle and Alexander.  
The Conqueror of the Universe, were mine.  
So far I fathomed into Books, Men, Manners,  
Reasons, Religions; I could take all Forms:  
The perfect Christian, or complete Philosopher;  
Could give the Earth and the Heavens first Foundation  
To Nature, or to Nature's God at pleasure:  
Dispute on both sides, and on both sides vanquish.  
So fair I stood for the world's awful Thunderer,  
Wit's Goddess from my Brain already born.  Lor. 
Your Story breeds amazement and delight.  Pope. 
Thus far for a Scholar.  
Now for a Traveller. Athens I left▪  
To pay a visit to her younger, but  
Her fairer, and her prouder Sister Rome.  
And thence  
I passed through Italy, Spain, France, Germany.  
Thus far I kept my Virgin Whiteness fair.  
Not but I had all  
That high Spring Tide within my youthful Veins  
That bursts the Adamantine Walls of Honour,  
And makes that Breach where Love and Ruin enter.  
But 'twas my pride preserved my guarded Innocence.  
Who yields to Love, makes but vain man her Lord:  
And I who had studied all the greater Globe.  
Scorned to be Vassal to the lesser world.  Lor. 
But did that pride continue?  Pope. 
No, Lorenzo,  
The Fort was stormed, and my proud Heart surrendered.  
My Virgin-Spoils were the great Duke of Saxony's.  Lor. 
How, this young Prince's Father? were you both  
His Mistress, and his Confessor?  Pope. 
Attend me,  
And hear the wondrous Tale. For two long years  
I lived a Lady in the Saxon Court,  
And the Duke's private Mistress, undiscovered  
Both by his Duchess, that sharp watchful Juno,  
And this young Prince, that subtle Mercury.  
During this space, by my cursed Sex's fate,  
That dotes on its destruction, my fond kindness  
Daily increased, grew to that height till time  
Had blown a spark into a conflagration.  
On th'other side this false ungrateful Duke's  
Declining Love decreased as fast;  
Degenerated to that monstrous coldness,  
Till like the North he froze before my Sun.  Lor. 
This inhumanity was more than barbarous.  Pope. 
And I rewarded him like a Barbarian.  
At last my Patience, Reason, Kindness, all  
Tired out, my slighted Love at length converted  
To the most mortal hate, rage and revenge.  
'Twas then I left his Court.  Lor. 
Bravely resolved!  Pope. 
And weary of my own detested Shape,  
I took the habit of a man, and entered  
I'th' Order of the Benedictine Monks.  Page. 
But why a Monk? why not t'a Nunnery?  
That last retreat of all distressed Sinners.  
Where the poor Nymph flies her false Shepherd's Arms,  
Mourns her neglected Sighs, and fading charms.  
To a Church Anthem tunes her tender Cries;  
Whilst like th'expiring Swan she sings and dies.  Lor. 
Yes, Madam, why not to a Nunnery?  Pope. 
No; that had been t' have published my despair,  
And given th'insulting Duke too great a Triumph.  
Besides a Priest was th' Engine for my vengeance.  
Thus masked and Shrouded in his borrowed Russet,  
Back to the Court I went, in hopes, if possible,  
To trace the haunts of that perfidious Duke,  
And learn the fatal face that had destroyed me.  
For well I feared some interposing Mistress  
Had been the cause of my Eclipsing Lustre:  
And mark how fortune prospered my design.  
It happened the Duke's Ghostly Father died.  
And I by my kind stars, struck in,  
And was most fortunately made his Successor.  Lor. 
Most admirable!  Pope. 
Thus by being his Confessor,  
His Bosom, and his Soul was all my own,  
My long Prophetic Fears proved but too true;  
A beauteous Saxon Lady, called Leonora,  
Was the cursed Ravisher of all my Joys.  Lor. 
But could you keep your person and your voice  
Still undiscovered?  Pope. 
Oh, an absolute Proteus!  
Bore my disguise so well.— In short, his Love  
To this new face, unlike my harder fate,  
Took every day new Fire, outran all Bounds,  
And flowed as fast as e'er it ebbed to Me.  
Whilst I by being his Priest, his Conscience Confident,  
Was Bawd to that Intrigue that had undone me.  
This swelled my Gaul into the rankest Malice,  
And made my Blood ferment into a fury.  
And then I laid the Plot for his destruction.  
In the Duke's name I held a correspondence  
With Damasus the German Heretic.  Lor. 
In the Duke's name? was not the Duke himself  
In the Conspiracy?  Pope. 
By Jove, not Herald  Lor. 
Was that your mighty Cause before the Conclave—  Pope. 
Cheat, Artifice, all Trick. The Duke, poor Man,  
Knew not one syllable of the Confederacy.  
I treated with the German, promised him  
In the Duke's name, Rebellions, Mutinies,  
To break the Roman Yoke, renounce the Pope,  
And draw all Saxony to the Revolt.  
I was the Prince's private Secretary,  
I writ all Letters, ordered all Returns  
To be directed to my hand, his Letters  
To th' Duke enclosed in mine; and thus I gained  
The nicest point of the most exquisite Treason.  
At last to consummate my full Revenge,  
I fairly poisoned him.  Lor. 
Beyond all precedent.  
Never was slighted Lady so revenged.,  
Or a lost Game so played.  Pope. 
'Twas great, 'twas excellent.  
And the success rewards me with a Diadem.  
What nobler heights, or what sublimer Glories  
Than what Revenge and Treason have achieved!  
Did not the Superstitious Ancients give  
Their universal Godhead to a Traitor?  
When deposed Saturn from his Seat was driven,  
Jove, the proud Rebel, seized the Throne of Heaven.  Enter Saxony, led in by Officers. Lor. 
To my fair Prisoner. This blessed hours my own. Exit.  Pope. 
Saxon, I sent for thee to let thee know,  
Thy Blasphemies have pierced th' Eternal Ear;  
Thy loud licentious Tongue 'gainst Us and our  
Unspotted Church, our ever holy Mother  
Would justly thrust thee a Rebellious Son  
For ever banished from the Realms of Bliss;  
Did not our Royal interposing Mercy  
Step in between thy angry God and thee.  Sax. 
Gygantick Arrogance. Match me this pride, Aside.  
Since his first proud Original, the great Lucifer  
Led his bright Host against th' immortal Throne.  Pope. 
But, Saxon, peace and safety wall thee round,  
Heavens and our pardon on thy knees implored,  
We, and our injured Church vouchsafe to look  
With Eyes of Pity, open our sealed Gates  
To a repenting Fugitive, restore  
Thy forfeit Crown, and no less forfeit Soul.  Sax. 
And would the gilded Pageantry of Rome,  
That upstart Idol called a Pope  
Make the great Duke of Saxony  
Crouch like a Slave, and bend his abject knee  
To his Royal Father's Murderer!  Pope. 
How, bold Blasphemer!  Sax. 
Yes, bolder Poisoner, to my Father's Traitor.  
But dares thy baseness think the Souls of Princes  
Formed of that Indian Mould to kneel to Devils?  Pope. 
Ha!  Sax. 
Look big, strut on, yes, base-born Greatness, do;  
Like the black Prince of th' Air, overlook the world beneath thee.  
But let thy Conscience tell thy vaunting pride,  
That thinks itself the Cedar of the Grove,  
That thou art only a rank Church yard Cypress,  
Rooted and planted amongst Tombs and Charnels,  
You sucked your Verdure from my Father's Grave.  
A Prince's murder raised you to your Throne,  
And paid a traitor's Wages with a Crown.  Pope. 
Audacious Impudence. Poor crawling Insect;  
But I am too tame, and shame the Throne that holds me,  
I tell thee, Saxon, thou shalt groan in Chains.  Sax. 
I tell thee, Priest, thou liest, I scorn to groan.  
Load me with Shackles, torture me with Wracks,  
As numberless as are thy Crimes, rank Prelate,  
And know to the confusion of thy pride,  
My Body is as hard as is thy Conscience,  
And scorns to groan as much as thou.  Pope. 
Silence his outrage in a Jail, away with him.  Sax. 
A Jail! stay Slaves, usurping Tyrant tell me  
By what authority the power of Rome  
Commands the Fortunes, Crowns and Lives of Princes.  
And thou that falsely stylest thyself a Churchman,  
Darest break a Sacrament of Heaven, divorce  
The sacred Partner of my Joys and Me?  Pope 
The Lives and Crowns of Princes, what are th●  
But the Creation of our Breath! shall we  
Who from immediate Heaven derived have right  
To make or unmake Saints, want power t'enthrone  
Or depose Kings, dispose of Crowns above,  
And yet not place 'em here! command Eternity,  
And have mortality control us?  
But do I talk, like a descending God  
Stoop to converse with poor and humble dust.  
Dull Slaves away.  Sax. 
Yet stay, descending God,  
And hear what Altar I intent to build thee.  
If 'tis decreed my short-lived Blaze of Glory,  
A martyred Prince's Life like a poor Taper  
Must be puffed out by that base poisonous blast,  
That vengeance which my fettered Arms want power  
To give, I will entail upon my Heirs.  
Now by my Royal murdered Father's blood,  
Whose each least drop outweighs thy Soul, lewd Priest,  
He is a Bastard to the Blood of Saxony,  
That shall not cross himself but at thy name  
With greater dread than to face an Host of Devils;  
And in each morning Litany he makes,  
He shall place thee before Wars, Plagues and Famines;  
Whilst his each Bead that drops a Prayer to Heaven,  
Shall blend a Curse to thee. Nay, you shall hear me.  Pope. 
Ye Gods, his Father's Shape, his Face, his Mien. Aside.  Sax. 
By Heavens, the very Girls through all my Saxony,  
That have no Weapons above their Needles,  
Shall in revenge of thy detested name,  
Limb that cursed Head in their embroidered Toys,  
And execute that Monster in Effigy.  Pope. 
His Father's Spirit too! Gods! with what courage Aside.  
He stems that Torrent that he knows can drown him.  
'Tis bold, 'tis bravely bold. Where am I going!  Sax. 
Nay, by my Soul, I will bequeath my Dukedom  
To Painters and Engravers to revenge me.  
There's not that humblest Roof in all the principality  
Of Saxony, that shall not have thy face  
Drawn to the life in Hell. Nay, every Portal  
To a Stable, or a Jakes  
Shall have thy Picture drawn upon a Gibbet.  Pope. 
Remove that frantic Railer from our presence,  
And lodge the feeble Snarler in a Dungeon.  
Oh stay my fluttering Soul. Aside.  Sax. 
Yes Fire and Faggot Priest, to a Dungeon:  
Remove me from that Gordon Pope,  
That fiery scorching Dog-star of the world,  
His pestilential Air 's too hot to breathe in. Exit, forced out by the Officers.  Manent only the Pope and Page. Pope. 
How dost thou like this fierce, this hectoring Duke!  
Methinks he stands my rage like a Corinthian  
Colossus, bears his Brow high as that Cloud  
That thunders round his Head, and his unshaken Feet  
O'er stride a Tempest, and a Sea Beneath him.  
Is he not bold, is he not truly brave?  Page. 
Bolder and braver than a dying Saint,  
And no less constant. So th'undaunted Martyr  
Smiles at the Stake, and triumphs in the Fire,  
Whilst his high Cause does his great Soul inspire.  
If I may speak my thoughts of him,  
I like Him better than his Fate.  Pope. 
Oh Girl, thou hast touched me to the very heart.  
His Father's Courage, Form, his Father all;  
Those very eyes that stabbed my Virgin Soul.  
Oh Amiran, thy Mistress is undone.  
I killed the Father, and now love the Son.  Page. 
How Madam!  Pope. 
Gorged with the Fountain, for the Stream I thirst.  
And teeming with th'unnatural Monster burst. Exit.  Page. 
Where will this end! If she goes on, this strange  
And monstrous Fever can't but end in Ruin.  
Oh Saxony, if thou hast such powerful Charms,  
Thy Eyes thy Father's Vengeance will pursue,  
And act what thy weak Arm could never do. Exit.  Enter Pope alone. Pope. 
How am I lost in my impossible  
Desires; I die for the Duke of Saxony;  
Die for that very man of th' whole Creation,  
That in my case my fatal Circumstances  
With all the mighty solid Barrs between us,  
I with less ease or hope can think t'enjoy,  
Than I could take a Lodging with a Salamander.  
Suppose his Virtues stood not in my way;  
But like his Fathers were as weak and easy  
To be subdued; yet I of all my Sex  
For ever must despair: Through all disguises  
He'll tract the features of his Father's poisoner.  
But grant it possible I could deceive him,  
Can I deceive my old Domestic Jailer  
Lorenzo, that stale Rifler of my pleasures?  
The very man, who when I stooped to make him  
Slave to my Lust, at the same hour I made him  
Lord of my Life: on both sides I am undone,  
I starve at Shoar, and if I launch, I drown.  Enter Lorenzo and Angeline. 
What have we here? Absconding.  Angel. 
Because my cruel Stars think fit to make  
My Lord and me your Tyrant Master's prey;  
Because our Lives and Crowns the dross of Princes  
A profane hand may reach, dare you presume,  
Audacious Slave, to think my Soul your prize,  
And talk of Love to me!  Lor. 
Madam, I know  
Our infinite distance, own your higher Sphere.  
Yet Slaves may barter with an Emperor,  
And sell a Jewel to adorn a Crown;  
Madam, I do not ask your Love for Love;  
I bring a price to purchase your affection,  
Would buy your favour with your Husband's life.  Ang. 
My Husband's life!  Lor. 
Yes, Madam.  Pope. 
Excellent. Aside.  Lor. 
You know my interest in his Holiness:  
'Tis in my power to reinstall your Lord  
In all his Glories; bribe me with your Love  
And by all that Heaven which those warm smiles can give,  
I'll burst his Chains, dispel his gloomy Fate,  
Present him with his Liberty and Crown.  Ang. 
And dares the Hellhound breath this Blasphemy?  
No; execute your savage Tyrant's doom;  
And lay that Royal Pile of Majesty  
Low as the dust. Better my Princely Lord  
With all the Loads of Shame and Wracks should die,  
Than the least spot should stain his Princess Heart.  Lor. 
Horror and Death. Discovering the Pope.  
Retire sweet Excellence,  
All shall be well, all shall be safe.  Puts Angeline out, and locks her into another Room. Pope. 
So my brisk Youth, I see my Favours have not  
Been thrown away upon you; you've improved  
Your Manhood, and the rich Court Pasture  
Agrees with your warm Blood.  Lor. 
Cursed accident!  
Now could I swear and lie, but to what purpose! Aside.  
She has caught me in my Villainy.  Pope. 
Why so profound a silence! Have her Charms  
And your new Ecstasies quite struck you dumb.  Lorrique 
Madam, t'abuse you, and deny or lessen  
Offences, would be to increase their Guilt.  
And not t'incur that Blame, forgive me when I tell you,  
By your command I seized that beauteous prize,  
And she has made Reprizals of my Heart.  Pope. 
Oh black ingratitude! have I advanced  
This low-Born Infidel; preferred him, loved him,  
Only to nurse a Traitor?  Lor. 
Why a Traitor!  
I own your favours all; own 'em with Reverence▪  
And like the grateful Persian I adore  
That Sun, that Lighed, and warmed me into Life  
Yet man's but man; and though our humane Breasts  
Are filled; filled up with Honour, Gratitude,  
Devotion, all those manly massy Virtues,  
Yet Love's that strange Mercurial part of Souls,  
It subtly creeps through all, and glides through every poor.  
And I should play the Hypocrite not to own  
I sigh and die for that illustrious Face.  Pope. 
Oh, you're an Artist at a treacherous Argument.  
But by my Glory, by that powerful Glory  
That first exhaled thee from thy humble Earth,  
And raised thee up into a shining Meteor,  
I'll lay thee in thy native Dirt.  Lor. 
How, Madam?  Pope. 
By all my hopes I'll do't.  Lor. 
Do if you dare.  Pope. 
Do you think to fright me? Yes, mistaken Slave,  
I will disrobe you of your shining Plumes.  Lor. 
Yes, do, majestic Vanity; soar like  
The Bird of Jove, keep on your Airy Flight;  
But know  
High as you are, there's a vast Gulf beneath you:  
I am the Wax cements your borrowed Wings,  
And when you melt me off, you sink and drown.  Pope. 
Then you'll betray me. Are we braved and hectored,  
And shall that hold my Dastard Arm?  
Sink Honour, Power, Life, Greatness, perish all:  
I'll be revenged or die. Who waits there?  
There seize that Rebel.  Enter Attendants. They seize him. Lor. 
And dare you put in action what you threaten!  Pope. 
You see I dare.  Lor. 
Bid 'em withdraw.  Pope. 
Withdraw. Exeunt Attendants.  Lor. 
Thus low I own your sacred vengeance just.  
But Mercy is the noblest Attribute  
Where Beauty's the Divinity. And Madam,  
Can you forgive me!  Pope. 
●ing●n you first remember  
How I have loved you.  
I had a little Beauty to endear you;  
Love I have had infinite, and truth unspeakable.  
And to all these  
The Princely Fortunes of a Roman Prelate,  
T'exhaust in our delights, and to sum all  
My Royal Bounties in one word.  
My Traitor shares my Crown; yet not these Bonds can hold you.  Lor. 
Oh, Madam, you reproach my infidelity  
So well, you make my wandering Eyes look inwards,  
And view my hated Guilt with shame and horror.  Pope. 
All other yielding Ladies only hazard  
A little fame, and meet their happy Lovers  
On Beds of Down, but I have done more for you,  
Have hazarded my Honour and my Head,  
For with my Sex I trust you with my life:  
And can you play the Traitor to such Love,  
T' a heart so generous, and so true?  Lor. 
No more.  
From this blessed hour I'll loathe that fair enchantress,  
View her bright Tresses as the Snakes of Furies,  
And come a perfect Convert to these Arms.  Pope. 
Now you are good.  Lor. 
I'll shun the dangerous Quicksand.  
Steered by these Eyes, shall all my Streamers fly:  
And as  
The wandering Voyager come safe to Shoar,  
Pays his best Thanks to Heaven for his Return,  
All my Love's Incense to this Saint shall burn.  Pope. 
And will you love me still!  Lor. 
Not Caesar's Spoils,  
Nor Alexander's World shall shake my faith.  
Not the bright Ruler of the Day,  
Should he resign the Chariot of the Sun,  
Shall bribe one thought astray.  Pope. 
You make most wonderful large promises▪  
But can you keep 'em?  Lor. 
Can you doubt me now!  Pope. 
But Sir, the time may come  
When you shall think me old.  Lor. 
Oh never.  Pope. 
Yes.  
The time will come when in your restless thoughts  
You will look back on what I have made you lose,  
Then cry you 've had me long; Time and Enjoyment  
Have worn the pleasure dull. But could I,  
Could I forgo the charming Angeline.  Lor. 
Why this unkind suspicion?  Pope. 
Well, I'll be generous, and believe your heart  
Securely mine. Yet this I am bound to say,  
I ought a little to excuse your frailty,  
When you had such a Conqueror. Envy itself  
Must own her fair, fair to a miracle.  
A prodigy of Beauty.  Lor. 
Yes indeed.  
She's very fair.  Pope. 
No wonder now that the loud spreading Glory  
Of the incomparable Angeline,  
The far famed Roman Princess charmed her Duke  
From out his distant Germany. A Cause  
Enough to have fired a second Hannibal  
O'er the cold Alps, when Rome had such a prize.  
Yet stay—  
I should be loath to draw her Picture  
Above the life. Lorenzo, prithee tell me,  
I think I do not flatter.  Lor. 
Truly, Madam,  
Not much.  Pope. 
No; she's the Mistress of those vast perfections,  
As Nature ne'er designed for common Conquests:  
Methinks I could walk o'er that ample Field of Beauty,  
Survey her all, then tell me she has a Brow  
All Majesty, and yet withal so full  
Of innocent sweetness, that methinks her Looks  
Darting through th'awful Glories of her Eyes  
Smile like an Infant in an Angel's Bosom.  Lor. 
What divine music's this? Aside.  Pope. 
Then she has an Eye▪  
So sparkling as might charm an Anchoret:  
In his cold Cell even Age itself inspire,  
And his starved Veins ferment into a Fire.  
And she has a Mien—  Lor. 
Oh hold, my wounds are fresh,  
And my distempered Soul but newly healed:  
And if you still pursue this dangerous Theme,  
I shall relapse into my burning Fever,  
And light th'unhallowed dying Fires again.  Pope. 
To count up all her Charms, she has a Beauty  
Enough t'attract all Eyes, all Hearts,  
Exhaled like Morning Dew before the Sun.  Lor. 
Madam, no more, you have talked till I am undone.  Pope. 
Yes, have we so; now where's your high-flown Raptures?  
Not the bright Ruler of the Day  
Should he resign the Chariot of the Sun—  Lor. 
Yet stop.  Pope. 
Now Vows, now Faith, where are you? where's  
Your Caesar's Spoils, and Alexander's World  
That could not bribe one thought astray.  Lor. 
Dear Madam.  
If you have pity hold.  Pope. 
Nay, you shall hear me.  
Oh unexampled perjury! But now  
Attend, and listen to your punishment.  Lor. 
Be merciful.  Pope. 
You shall enjoy this Princess.  Lor. 
How Madam?  Pope. 
By my life you shall enjoy her.  
Nay, do not start; know I have only acted  
The seeming Thunderer, and wrought you up  
To all this full confession of your Falsehood,  
Have made this trial of your Faith to find you  
That very thing my ravished Soul could wish you:  
For now I dare with greater boldness tell you,  
I love her Lord, love the great Duke of Saxony  
With fiercer Fires, than you his charming Duchess.  
And when I give you leave to obtain your wishes,  
You must be just, and aid me to crown mine.  Lor. 
Are you in earnest?  Pope. 
By my Royalty I am.  
Storm on, and conquer, melt her frozen Virtue.  
And love and surfeit like a revelling God.  Lor. 
Let me embrace your Knees.  
What can I do to pay you for this kindness?  
I am too tardy in my Gratitude:  
Say shall I bring the Saxon to your Bed,  
By Jupiter I'll drag him to your arms,  
And when your riotous Love, like a keen Eagle  
Has soared so long, till one dull Quarry tires you,  
Choose out fresh Game, new Youth, new Veins to please you;  
Survey your Rome, look round your ample world,  
Mark out that face that you design for Sacrifice,  
By Heaven's bright Throne 'tis yours.  Pope. 
Thanks, dear Lorenzo.  
This is extremely kind. But, oh! I love  
Where all Attempts, and even all hopes are vain.  
My Wings are pinioned, and my Feet are chained,  
And the broad Gulf between us is unpassable.  Lor. 
Madam, 'tis true, you've a hard Game to play:  
But don't despair: for methinks there's something  
Prophetic in my working Soul that tells me  
I shall do wonders in your Cause, when Angeline  
Is my Reward; and when my active Brain  
Has formed that great Minerva: (for, by Heavens  
He must and shall be yours;) know Madam,  
I'll bring you to his Arms with as much pleasure  
As ever I received you in my own.  Pope. 
Why! this is as it should be. Why should we  
Who've loved and loved till we have palled our Appetites,  
Drawn off Love's Nectar to the dregs, be Slaves  
To senseless Constancy! Give me a loose  
In pleasures uncontrolled, unlimited  
As Ocean Tides, whose wanton Billows roar,  
Rove, and roll on to the World's utmost Shore.  
These, these, are my Principles.  Lor. 
By Heavens; and mine.  Pope. 
Give me your hand; hence forward let our Wills  
Admit no Bounds, our Pleasures no control:  
In our delights, let old Rome's Glory shine,  
Thou the brisk Tarquin, I the wanton Messalina. Exeunt.  The Scene the Prison, which opening, discovers variety of Heretics in several Tortures. Heretic 1. 
Oh for a Sword, a Dagger through my heart. Oh▪  Her. 2. 
Savage tormentors, hold! oh! Groans  Her. 3. 
Barbarian Devils! oh!  Priest. 
Peace Heretic, or I shall burn that Tongue out.  
These lingering Torments are but lent in kindness  
T'inure you for damnation.  Her. 3. 
Tyrant Monsters.  Priest 1. 
When your Apostasy from Truth and Heaven  
Has light your scorching Souls, you'll find Hell hotter.  Enter the Duke of Saxony, brought in by Officers. Sax. 
Where am I brought. T' a Roman Prison. Death!  
Is this the place! Hold, Minister of Horror,  
Why all this Cruelty?  Priest. 
Ask when you feel it.  Sax. 
Bold Slave; is this an answer for a Prince!  Priest 1. 
Bold Prince, is this a question for a Priest?  
A Prince! a Pigmy; poor gay fool examine  
Your Circumstances, and this Place; and then  
Ask who's the Slave, dull Dotard, thou or I  Sax. 
Traitor, I'll tear thy heart out. Offers at him.  Priest. 1. 
Seize the Madman. They seize Saxony.  
Nay, do not swagger; if you are so hot,  
We'll cool you e'er we part.  Sax. 
Gods! am I seized  
And braved by Rascals?  1 Priest. 
Insolent Earth and Ashes,  
Do you know who 'tis we are?  Sax. 
Yes, Ruffains, wondrous well;  
The Pope's Edgetools, the Armour of the Beast;  
The scales and tail of that huge monstrous Hydra;  
And whensoe'er his boiling Venom hisses,  
You sting and kill: Ye rank infectious Limbs—  
But, Gods! that I should stoop to scold with Villains!  
Patience, if ever thou wert a Royal Virtue,  
Keep in my Gall, and make my Rage burn inwards.  2 Priest. 
Bold Lord, you take a wondrous Privilege,  
To talk thus rudely  
To the Masters of your Fate. Think where you stand.  Sax. 
Yes, Priest, in the Pope's Shambles;  
Yes, I am snared; now, Pope, thou hast me safe:  
The scorn of Fortune, and the sport of Villains.  
So when the Princely Lion's in the toil,  
Each Cur dares bark at him.  Enter Lorenzo. 
What makes him here? How! new Tormentors still!  Lor. 
No, Royal Sir.— Leave us alone. Exeunt all but Sax. and Lor.  Sax. 
What now!  
Speak, what new Storm? this Monster ne'er sails by,  
But where the stream runs Blood.  Lor. 
No more that Monster.  
Behold an humble Penitent at your feet. Kneels.  
Most injured Majesty, my trembling Soul  
Droops at your fate.  Sax. 
A very excellent Mask!  Lor. 
Sir, to remove all thoughts  
Of such Hypocrisy,— Bring in that Lady.  Angeline is brought in veiled; which upon her entrance she pulls off. 
Here be as happy as those Charms can make you.  Sax. 
My sweetest Angeline!  Ang. 
My Lord, my Life!  Sax. 
Nay, Sir, talk on; perhaps thou mayst be honest,  
Since these are thy Credentials.  Lor. 
Yes, my Lord,  
I am.  Sax. 
Indeed thou shouldst be so; for sure  
No treacherous hand could make me such a Present:  
Yet I have had such wrongs, so much foul play,  
That I mistrust the fairest Cast of Fortune;  
And some new Plot may lurk even in these Arms.  
Speak; is there Heaven or Hell within this Circle?  Lor. 
Heaven, Sir, if she can give it you. By all  
My hopes, I am your slave; my tyrant Lord,  
The Pope's Barbarity, and your hard fortunes, have so perfectly  
Converted me, that as an expiation  
Of my past Crimes, with hazard of my life,  
I bring this Lady to your Arms.  Ang. 
Nay, Sir,  
If there be truth in Oaths, he has sworn so heartily,  
That sure this pleasing Vision must be true.  Lor. 
I must be brief; there's danger in my stay.  
Know then, the cruel Pope my much-loathed Master  
Continues still almost inexorable;  
Yet though you are lodged within this dismal Scene  
Of Tyranny, I have prevailed so far,  
That no Barbarity t'your Royal Person  
Shall here be offered you: Your freedom only  
Denied; and that's not in my power to give:  
And yet in time I hope t'obtain that too.  
For by my Soul, if all my Art and Interest  
Can serve you, I'll restore your clouded brightness  
To all its lustre; and that too, without  
Your least submission t'an unprincely thought,  
Below the honour of the Duke of Saxony.  Sax. 
Let me embrace this Miracle of Goodness.  
This is so strangely kind! Enter Amiran.  Amir. 
Oh, Sir, take heed!  
A general Murmur runs through all the Prince's jailors,  
To know why you have broken their strict Orders,  
And brought a Lady to their Royal Prisoner.  Ang. 
And can there be that storm must part us now?  Lor. 
Sir, though your jailors are too numerous  
To be all bribed, and Faith in multitudes  
Can never be reposed; yet I have found  
One honest Priest amongst them: him I have made mine,  
Made mine by gold; and though this fatal place  
To this fair Guest is now forbidden ground,  
And I must take her from you; yet at night,  
A dark and safer hour,  
By his assistance, through a private door,  
This Page shall bring your Princess to your Bed.  
Alas, this homely Palace does ill suit  
Your Royal Joys; yet that Love will excuse:  
And 'tis no little transport to my Soul,  
That 'tis within my power to make you happy.  Sax. 
Never did Friendship equal thine; thou best—  Lor. 
Nay, Sir, no thanks; 'tis more than I deserve:  
For the whole study of my life to serve you,  
Is but th'atonement of my greater guilt.  
But one thing, Sir, I had forgot to tell you:  
Take heed that you are silent in your Loves;  
For there are many dangerous Ears around you,  
And a discovery may cost  
Your loyal slave his head.  Sax. 
Oh, fear not that.  Lor. 
We must make haste, our danger calls us hence.  Ang. 
Farewell, my dearest Lord.  Sax. 
Till night, farewell.  
Night, did I say? No, dazzling Brightness, no;  
Thy Sweets drive Sorrows, Pains, and Shades away:  
And in thy Arms 'tis everlasting day.   

ACT the Fourth.  Enter Lorenzo and Pope. She in her woman's habit. Pope. 
OH, I could hug thee for this rare design.  
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 suspicion  
To damp our fierce delights. This was a Masterpiece.  Lor. 
Nay, Madam, I have had my Trophies too,  
To have his Duchess 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 Precedent e'er matched this nights Intrigue.  
Never was Love on all sides so performed;  
Their very Ravishers, their darling Lovers,  
And the kind Sacrifice flew to the fire.  
Oh Love, if ever thou wert blind, 'twas there.  Lor. 
But, Madam, though 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 kind officious Priestly Jailer,  
Baited with Gold like a true generous Pander,  
Stood at the door t'admit my Page and me.  
My Page then led me softly to the Duke's  
Apartment; but no Tell-tale Taper light us.  
Muffled and masked to his dark Bed I came;  
His Curtains straight at my approach flew open,  
As I have seen upon a shining Theatre  
The painted Clouds to a descending Venus.  
Then straight he grasped me in his burning Arms,  
Whilst in my Ears these eager Accents fell,  
My dearest, gentlest, sweetest Angeline.  
But I to shroud my fatal Siren's voice,  
As if the danger of the place had scared me,  
Straight hushed him silent with a trembling Kiss,  
The only Rhetoric these Lips durst make:  
And from that hour we had no room for talking.  
Our only Eloquence was our delights,  
Whilst our transported Raptures struck us dumb.  
Before the dangerous morning-dawn, the Page  
Returned to bear me back, and I retired  
As safely as I came: left the poor Lord  
So ecstasied, the false Angelic Vision  
To his deluded sense appeared so fair,  
As left no tract to show 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 crowned, can sit more cheerful  
Than this night's 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 Duchess!  Amir. 
Much in the same vein.  
Only 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 only 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 Revelers, 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 Kingdom's Ransom in a Pearl,  
To treat her darling Anthony, t'inspire  
To his drained Veins new life, and unknown fire!  
Oh, Egypt's glorious Queen!  
Shall I less active be? my blood's as warm,  
And I am as brisk, as young and proud as she.  
Cells, Cloisters, 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 blind 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 deified, nor the new Rome  
E'er canonised a Heroine more illustrious.  Pope. 
If the cold Bones of a dull Roman Saint  
Can sleep in Treasures, whilst his senseless Marble  
Sweats in embroidered Gems and molten Gold,  
Shall my warm Bed and warmer Lovers want it?  
No!  
I'll melt the Crown from the gilt Martyr's head,  
And ransack even his Tomb t'adorn my Bed.  
I'll rifle Saints to make my Lovers shine,  
And Steal from Heaven 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 Executor.  
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 Heretics. 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, than 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 Heretics,  
Those bugbear monstrous things, designed 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' sacred Treasury,  
And takes a Licence for the Trade she holds.  
The bloody Murderer runs but to a Church,  
And 'tis his Sanctuary; the Gates fly open,  
While the generous Priest, like his kind Guardian Saint,  
Views the fresh Scarlet on the Cutthroats face,  
And hugs his darling Brother. But poor Heresy,  
That mortal, capital, unpardonable, crying sin,  
Must never be forgotten: Rome's jails, and Dungeons,  
Wheels, Wracks, Stakes, Gibbets, are for Heretics made.  2 Her. 
Now by my starving Veins and aching Bones,  
How faithfully thou play'st the Painter.  1 Her. 
What think'st thou of a Pope?  2 Her. 
Why he's a Horseleech  
Without a tail; the Blood he sucks, runs through him:  
He sucks and sucks, but never fills. But, heavens'!  
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 lied; For that, that only Crime,  
I am condemned untried to endless Chains,  
And Torments doomed, ne'er to see light again.  1 Her. 
Not to see light again! 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, yond dawning 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 Bedchamber within the Prison. Enter Saxony in his Nightgown, as newly risen from Bed. Sax. 
Good Heaven! what misty damp disturbs my sleep?  
Sulphur and Pitch? What poisonous smoky stench  
Offends my aching Eyes?  Within. 
Fire! fire! fire!  Sax. 
Horror 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 heavens', we are almost circled in with flames!  
And the doors locked, fast barred. Knocking to get out.  
jailors, 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 fly.  Sax. 
The Flames increase, and we are pent in with Ruin.  
Unlock the door; deaf hardened Devils, hear us. Knocking.  
Open the door, make haste, or else we die.  Within. 
Die, and be damned.  2. 
Fire! Water!  Sax. 
Oh my dear Angeline, we are betrayed:  
A strange prophetic horror tells my Soul  
That we are mewed 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 bloody fire, the word MURDER; which continues burning some time. 
My Angeline, my Royal Father's Ghost!  
See Murder, Murder! Oh the voice of Blood!  
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 murdered sleeping Shade wakes from Death's arms  
To call us to his own untimely Grave.  
Now, Pope, thou and thy black Colleagues of Hell,  
Complete their impious Vengeance.  Pope. 
By all that's damned, 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! Aside.  
Mistaken, dull infernal fools, I have not yet  
Sat long enough on Rome's Imperial Throne  
To do you half the service of a Pope.  Sax. 
Witness, good Heaven, 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. 
Ruined! betrayed! 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 Aside.  
Curse on your blazing Thrones. No Ditch-born Hag  
Was ever doomed to such a fate as I am.  
By Hell, I scorch already: Fire and Aetna!  
Traitors, Priests, Monsters. Here, open the door. Knocking.  Sax. 
Ha!  Pope. 
Now could I part with all my Keys of Heaven,  
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 drowsy Villains—  Sax. 
What art thou? speak, infernal Fiend, what art thou?  seizing her. 
Speak, Succubus, what Gibbet hast thou robbed  
For that loathed 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.  
Fly, or we burn. Enter Priests and Lights.  Sax. 
By heavens', the very form  
Of my dead Father's Poisoner!  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 Mistress and my Charge; and with  
My Blood I'll justify her Innocence.  Pope. 
Good, pious, honest, tenderhearted Father,  
This Diamond speak my thanks. Gives him a Ring.  1 Priest. 
A Bona Roba.  2 Priest. 
One of our Brother's friends! nay, then all's well.  3 Priest. 
An honest Girl of yours? that name protects her.  Sax. 
Protect her! how! protect the greatest Traitress  
That ere disgraced a Jail, or shamed a Gibbet.  
Secure her, seize her.  4 Priest. 
Stop that mad man's 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. 
Horror unspeakable!  
What Monster has this night slept in my arms?  
Do I live, speak, move, walk? Is yond your Heaven,  
Your Earth I tread on, or your Air I breath in?  
And is this load of Nature Flesh and Blood?  
Or is it all a Dream, or am I changed  
To some incarnate Devil, doomed to walk  
Death's burning plains, converse with Imps and Goblins,  
Tread the dark Mazes of eternal night,  
And sleep with Hags and Succubas.  
Oh the vast fever of my burning Blood!  
Some Ocean quench me, or some Mountain swallow me.  
Not Christian slaves, wrapped up in Pitch, and light  
Like burning Tapers to the Savage Nero,  
Not Hercules in his envenomed 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! Heaven forbid.  Pope. 
Sleeping this night  
In my dear Saxons arms, by some cursed accident  
The scene of our delights was set on fire.  
Straight from his Bed the frighted Saxon leapt,  
And thundered in my Ears, Wake, wake, my Angeline!  
Oh 'twas a fatal sound; not the last Trumpet  
Shall wake the Damned to greater pains than mine.  
Cursed be that hour; the blazing Firebrands, like  
A Taper to a wandering Midnight-Ghost,  
Served but to show the Fiend these Eyes discovered.  Lor. 
Discovered! Death and Furies.  Pope. 
Not th'enraged Oedipus  
Alarmed from his incestuous Mother's Bed,  
Raved half so loud as he. But to sum all,  
The Terrors of this hideous night,  
The ghastly form of the old poisoned Saxon,  
Burst through the Marble-floor, and with a Torch  
Dipped in the sulphurous Lake, from whence he rose,  
In distinct Characters of Blood 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 entering jailors 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 guests the real Traitress?  
There, there's the fatal point.  Pope. 
Oh I have but too much reason to believe it;  
For at the horror of these killing Eyes,  
He cried, The Features of my Father's Poisoner.  
And though betwixt his wild distracted senses  
He left me with the name of Witch, Fiend, Sorceress,  
And what else other odd fantastic forms  
His wandering Rage could shape; I am not safe.  Lor. 
No, you are undone: for if he lives, you die.  
Should tattling 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 envenomed Lungs breathe Plagues, and I  
Must root his heart up to dislodge that Poison.  
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 glory's slave.  Lor. 
Spoke like Rome's Monarch! This a Sceptered hand  
And a Crowned head should be.  Pope. 
But is it not enough  
His Father I have poisoned, stained his Bed,  
Himself imprisoned, and to stab his Soul,  
His dearest Princess thou hast both whored and ravished;  
But to all these accumulated Cruelties  
I must at last add his own murder too?  
Is it not barbarous!  Lor. 
Death, not at all:  
For now you are kind, and put him out of pain.  
Besides, your life and Crown's at stake; let that  
Inspire your Soul.  
Does not th'invading Conqueror that leads  
His thousands and his thousands out to battle,  
To scale the Walls of some Imperial City,  
Fill up a Ditch with his own martyred 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 Orator,  
I stand confirmed; 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 threatened life.  
Thou mayst act safely for me; for he knows  
Not who, nor whence thou art. Tell him, his business  
Is only to give the mad wild 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 kind Amiran.  
Make haste, my Girl.  Amir. 
I fly 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 kind; and if Eternity  
Has, to wronged Virtue, Constellations given,  
Why should I stick to send the man I love to Heaven?  
Or why should snarling fools at blood repine,  
When Death's the Furnace does their Gold refine?  
'Tis Wounds and Death that Heaven with Stars does paint,  
And the kind Murderer translates the Saint.  Exeunt.  

ACT the Fifth.  The Scene the Prison. Amiran alone. Amir. 
HIther I come to bring a Sovereign head,  
A Sovereign Cure, a sober sleeping Pill;  
I, that's the word.  
Poor Saxony! thy Royal Father murdered,  
Thy dearest Princess ravished, and to make up  
The most unnatural monstrous mass of Cruelty,  
Thy Father's Poisoner, and thy Father's Whore,  
Lodged in thy Bed. Oh thou'rt a true Original  
Of unexampled Misery: No Tragedy  
Ere equalled thine. Yet after all, this most  
Wronged Prince must bleed, and I must be his murderer.  
Oh my faint Arm! Oh my Barbarian Mistress!  
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 played 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.  Sax. 
Oh my wronged Angeline,  
What have I done? by what Infatuation,  
What damned Illusion led, have I a Monster  
Clasped to my breast? or has some Rival-God,  
In malice to thy happier envied Lord,  
Caught thee t'his Heaven t'outshine yond dazzling Stars,  
And left that changeling Demon in my Arms!  
I shall run mad.  Amir. 
Alas, poor injured Prince!  Sax. 
Tell me, ye Powers Infernal, I conjure you  
By all the Pleasures of Revenge;  
And thou cursed Pope, thou greater blacker Devil,  
Tell me by what Enchantments, 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 Ruin! Pity, Conscience, Love,  
I know not which thou art: But on the sudden  
My dire resolves are staggered.  Sax. 
Art thou here!  
Oh my young Pander! ye kind 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,  
Swathed thee with Adders, suckled thee with Blood,  
And dipped thee young in Hell,  
Speak quickly, or I'll tear the cursed Secret  
From thy impostumed 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,  
That I had rather die myself than be  
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 Heaven I will forgive thee.  
Out with it, come; now wouldst thou tell me all,  
But art ashamed to own thyself a Bawd:  
'Las, that might be thy Father's 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 Heaven 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 only act a single Tragedy,  
But even disjoint all Nature's 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 bosom, was your Father's Poisoner.  Sax. 
Riddles and Death! what mystic sounds are these?  Amir. 
That Sorceress that in a borrowed 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,  
And for the last, the greatest fatal stab;  
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 called Joanna Anglica,  
That Siren first defiled your Father's Bed,  
And then by Jealousy transformed t'his Priest,  
And by Revenge t'his Murderer— his blood,  
His Royal blood she doubly, doubly poisoned.  Sax. 
Thunder and Earthquakes!  Amir. 
And not th'end there neither,  
The bestial lust of her incestuous Fires  
Traced your dead father's Beauties in your Eyes;  
And the same sulphurous Mine that blew his soul up,  
Was light to sacrifice the Martyred son.  Sax. 
A Whore, a Poisoner! nay, a Father's Whore,  
And Father's Poisoner! Oh my bloated Soul!  
O most unnatural doubly damned Hyena,  
Mixed in my Father's shame! Oh horror, horror!  
Oh my vast wrongs, destruction, ruin, death!  
Strike thick, ye darts of fate. My poor dear Angeline.  
Ha! spite 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 deceived her Lord, was your poor Princess,  
By false Lorenzo's lust, enjoyed and ravished.  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,  
That made mankind for ruin; end me quickly,  
Oh bury me like the rebellious Giants,  
Loaded with Mountain-piles, for I shall rave,  
Rave to that height, till all my gasping Pangs,  
My rolling 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 Eyeballs burst. Say, Boy, canst thou  
Oblige a very wretched thing, and bear  
My dying sighs to that dear martyred 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 Ruins,  
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. 
heavens' brightest Diadem crown thee for this goodness.  There Amiran whispers with Carlo, and gives him a Key. 
Fly, Carlo, fly, and as thou bringst her hither,  
Repeat the dismal Tale of all our Woes.  
But oh, 'tis terrible, 'tis wondrous terrible  
For such chaste 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 yond 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 fly to obey you, Sir.  Sax. 
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'enamoured Stars can ere  
Receive, or the impoverished 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 beholdest '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 dishevelled pride  
On her pale neck that ravished 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 Beauty's Murderer.  Sax. 
How, Boy!  Amir. 
The bloody Pope, frighted last night  
At her discovered face, has doomed you both  
T'eternal silence by a Bowl of poison.  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 passed.  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 bobbed 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 wild forms of my unruly Soul!  Enter Angeline with her hair dishevelled, attended by Carlo. 
Thou beauteous pile of everlasting Woe,  
Approach thy wretched Lord.  Ang. 
Where art thou, Carlo?  
Lend me thy hand, and guide me to my Love;  
For these benighted eyes are so or'edrowned in tears,  
That I am all dark, and cannot find my way.  Sax. 
So have I seen a Cloud all gilt with light;  
But oh ye Powers that could those heavens' benight!  
What was her day, if she can set so bright?  Ang. 
Oh my loved Lord,  
This ruined thing comes to thy feet to die.  Sax. 
If thou must die, draw near, my lovely Martyr;  
Come to this Breast, and make these arms thy Monument.  Ang. 
In those loved arms! Oh stay, where am I going?  
Stand off, my Lord, stand off.  
Those dear embraces are too blessed 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 loved bosom,  
That I shall live, live a polluted Monster,  
And make the blushing world ashamed to own me.  
Live with my load of shame! No, cruel Powers,  
Hear my last Prayer, and give my murdered Honour  
And me one Grave.  Sax. 
Oh thou bright falling Star,  
Never was Love nor Injuries like thine!  
Poor ravished sweetness!  Ang. 
Ravished! Oh ruin, fate, destruction, Death!  
These Eyes, these Lips, oh heavens', this sacred Bosom,  
Once the blessed Throne of thy transported Joys,  
Made a loathed Monsters Prey! But oh ye Powers,  
This is not half my Scene of Woe! Alas,  
The bleeding Lucrece and the mourning Philomela  
Could plead as much as this: But I am a wretch  
A thousand times more monstrously deformed.  
Oh my vast Wounds! there's that wide breach of ruin  
In this one breast, will let in death enough  
To break both hearts.  Sax. 
Together let 'em break.  Ang. 
Oh my wronged 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 Traitor, kissed, embraced him, loved him,  
Around his neck my longing arms I threw;  
For I was kind, and thought, my Lord, 'twas you.  
Oh horror, horror, unexampled horror!  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 fixed like a transparent Glory,  
And now all at one sudden blast of Lightning  
To strike the Masterpiece of their Creation,  
Thrown headlong from her Pinnacle of Honour,  
And dash the shining Crystal Globe to pieces?  
Blush, blush, ye Gods, blush till your glowing Skies  
Anticipate the world's last Funeral-pile,  
And scorching Nature burn and rave as I do.  Ang. 
Methinks I see through your distracted eyes  
A load of Fate weigh down your drooping Soul;  
And is it all for your poor Angeline!  
Be comforted; what though I come to die,  
'Tis but a short farewell 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 wild Apostate fury die,  
And never meet thee more.  Ang. 
O fie, my Lord,  
Take heed, take heed of this unjust despair;  
Oh pray to Heaven, and think that I am there.  
Oh do not tax the great Omnipotence  
Of aught unjust; when they deposed us here,  
No doubt 'twas but to crown us brighter there.  Sax. 
Yes, ye great Powers, make us amends in Heaven;  
For we have had but little Justice here.  Aug. 
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 again,  
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 reigned when I was born?  
Planets, Fiends, Furies!  
These were th'ascendant Lords at my creation  
That abhorred Night: when my unlucky Parents  
Mixed their unhappy Loves to form this Being,  
No smiling Star peeped 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  
Designed to buy your Blood, shall pay your Ransom:  
With this I'll purchase your deliverance.  
Thus secretly released, be it your art  
To strike your Dagger to the Traitor's heart.  Sax. 
Now art thou kinder than a giving God,  
And even preventst my Prayers. From thy bright Heaven,  
Blessed Saint, look down, and let thy well-pleased Ghost  
Smile at the Victim I intent to make thee.  
And the slow pangs of his sad heart forgive,  
Who for thy Vengeance must thy Fate outlive.  Exeunt. 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 Holiday, let us improve it, and make the best use on't, that is, go to the Tavern, and be downright drunk.  Rom. 2. 
ay, Neighbour, for I never knew any other use of a Holiday, 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 Sunset, this I take to be the improvement of the day.  Rom. All. 
ay, I, 'tis, 'tis.  Rom. 2. 
But hark 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 damned, Neighbours.  Rom. 2. 
Ay, but, Neighbour, you ought to help at a dead lift, 'tis hard trusting to other men's 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 damned, 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.  Rom. 2. 
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-pences, and I'll pray for myself: and ne'er trouble them, and that I think is fair.  All. 
Ay, Ay!  Rom. 1. 
Besides that's taking the bread out of the Priests Mouths, and that's no other than Sacrilege, 'tis plain Entrenchment.  Rom. 3. 
Entrenchment! what's Entrenchment!  Rom. 1. 
Are you such a fool you don't know what Entrenchment means, why Entrenchment is a hard word, and you all know what a hard word is,  All. 
ay, I.  Rom. 1. 
Why, 'tis meddling with what we have nothing to do with, which is no better than picking one's 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 Duchess of Saxony. Rom. 2. 
But see that which you called 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 streets of Rome,  
Yet will the Story, when unfolded, strike  
You all with sudden horror and amazement.  Rom. 1. 
Dad, he speaks well.  Sax. 
Say worthy Roman's▪  
If freely you'll afford your Charity  
To an afflicted Prince that pressed with griefs  
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  
Flocked round the Body of their murdered Caesar;  
With Tears they washed his Wounds,  
And mixed a Deluge with his gushing Blood;  
Then starting from the Corpse with noble rage,  
Revenge and Justice through the Streets they cried.  
Oh, Romans, you will live to see that day  
When from your Roofs your Daughters will be dragged,  
Their Virgin Innocence abused with dust,  
And thus brought home a lamentable Spectacle.  
Thus shall your Wives and Daughters all be ravished,  
Dishonoured, Poisoned.  Rom. 2. 
Why, has the Princess been so served!  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. Winifred, my Fingers do so itch to be at him.  Rom. 1. 
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. 
ay, 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 Relics, and Holywater, and Miracles, and not believe an honest golden Prince?  Sax. 
Then, generous Romans, know,  
I owe mine and this Beauteous Martyr's ruin  
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 greased us in the fist, or else—  
Udslid, the Pope!  Sax. 
Nay, Romans, do not think I utter aught  
Against Rome's Majesty, but Rome's 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 abhorred,  
Loathed Sorceress, a filthy rank Adulteress,  
A Woman damned in Lust, whilst the vile Schriech Owl  
Brood's in the Nest of Eagles.  Enter Lorenzo. Lor. 
The murdered Angeline, and the Saxon Duke.  
This Ground's too hot for me. Offers to go.  Sax. 
Stay Villain, stay.  
Look on that Martyr, and this Arm, and then  
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 Minute's life's too long. Fights.  Lor. 
Thou hast killed me, and Damnation thank thee for't. Dies.  Sax. 
Thus far, blessed Saint, thy great revenge succeeds.  Enter Pope, Cardinals, Priests, and other Officers, as in form of a Procession. Pope. 
Lorenzo murdered, and that Saxon Basilisk  
Alive, and in the head o'th' Multitude!  
I am betrayed, undone. Aside.  Sax. 
Romans, Lords, Cardinal's, to you I speak,  
That brand of Hell—  Pope. 
Now by yond bright Omnipotence,  
Some black design against Rome's awful Godhead.  Sax. 
No, by yond bright Omnipotence I come  
For Justice, Justice against Rome's Scarlet Whore.  Pope. 
Dear adored Devil, save me but this once.  Sax. 
Oh Romans, Rome's once shining Dignity  
And dazzling 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. 
Inhuman Insolence.  Card. 2. 
Exquisite Traitor!  Sax. 
No, wilful 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 murdered:  
Whilst th' Hell-burnt Lust of the adulterous Hag  
Within these blasted Arms supplied her Room.  Pope. 
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 Rome's injured Majesty,  
And burn the Enchantress.  Pope. 
Oh right the Honour of Rome's injured Majesty,  
And seize the Heretic. Saxony draws, and makes at the Pope, but is disarmed by the people.  All the Card. 
Burn, burn the Traitor.  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 loosened 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 stopped, 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, doomed like a Slave, a Traitor!  
Farewell thou Royal rank Church Whore, farewell,  
Live and reign on, yes hot enchantress live  
Rome's universal Teeming, Fruitful Prostitute:  
Brood on Rome's 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 Cloister  
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 engendering Devil,  
And people thy cursed Rome with Imps and Goblins.  
And to employ all Hell's whole stock of Fire,  
May all thy race be Cardinals, Popes, Abbots,  
Monks, Friars, Priests and all be damned together.  Rabble. 
Burn him, burn him. Scene shuts.  Enter Cardinal's. Card. 1. 
By all that's good, a Whore, a Witch,  
Confusion? Rome's dread Majesty transformed  
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. 
Rome's Royal Chair,  
Once the bright Seat of Heavens great Deputies,  
Profaned and sullied by a Whore, a Siren;  
May this cursed day, and this more cursed deed  
From Rome's great Annals be for ever torn.  Card. 1. 
No let her shame be branded to posterity.  
First be her Body into Tiber thrown,  
Then hers and her unshapen Bastard's Image  
Be fixed 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 cursed 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,  
Touched with a Spark from yond 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 than the Coronation Porphyry,  
On which Rome's installed Bishop, Heaven's  
Lieutenant takes his great Commission,  
Shall through it have that subtle concave formed  
Through which a reverend Matron's hand—  Card. 2. 
Now by yond Stars inspired by some good Angel▪  
I guess thy glorious purpose.  Card. 1. 
Now Devils we defy your utmost power,  
Rome's awful Throne shall be profaned no more.  
Put Whores and Bawds upon us, if you can,  
Rome's Mitred Head henceforth shall be a Man.  Exeunt omnes.  
FINIS.