Page:The Mysterious Mother - Walpole (1781).djvu/19

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A TRAGEDY.
11
MARTIN.
Poor mastery! when I aThis is masterly.

BENEDICT.
Poor mastery! when I am more in awe
Of my own penitent, than she of me.
My genius is command; art, but a tool
My groveling fortune forces me to use.
Oh! were I seated high as my ambition,
I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs,
And make them bow to creeds myself would laugh at[1].

MARTIN.
By humbler arts our mighty fabric rose.
Win pow'r by craft; wear it with ostentation;
For confidence is half-security.
Deluded men think boldness, conscious strength;
And grow the slaves of their own want of doubt.
Gain to the holy see this fair domain;
A crimson bonnet may reward your toils,
And the rich harvest prove at last your own.

BENEDICT.
Never, while Edmund lives. This steady woman
Can ne'er be pious with so many virtues.
Justice is interwoven in her frame;
Nor will she wrong the son she will not see.
She loves him not; yet mistress of his fortunes,
His ample exhibition speaks her bounty.
She destines him whate'er his father's love
Gave blindly to her will. Her alms, her charities,
Usurp'd from her own wants, she sets apart
A scanty portion only for her ward,
Young Adeliza.

  1. ↑ Alluding to Sixtus quintus.

MARTIN.

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