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THE MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
To metaphysic nonsense worse than ours.
The church is but a specious name for empire,
And will exist wherever fools have fears.
Rome is no city; 'tis the human heart;
And there suffice it if we plant our banners.
Each priest cannot command—and thence come sects.
Obdurate Zeno and our great Augustine
Are of one faith, and differ but for power.
The church is but a specious name for empire,
And will exist wherever fools have fears.
Rome is no city; 'tis the human heart;
And there suffice it if we plant our banners.
Each priest cannot command—and thence come sects.
Obdurate Zeno and our great Augustine
Are of one faith, and differ but for power.
BENEDICT.
So be it—therefore interest bids us crush
This cockatrice and her egg: or we shall see
The singing saints of Savoy's neighb'ring vale
Fly to the covert of her shadowy wings,
And foil us at our own dexterity.
Already to those vagrants she inclines;
As if the rogues, that preach reform to others,
Like idiots, minded to reform themselves.
So be it—therefore interest bids us crush
This cockatrice and her egg: or we shall see
The singing saints of Savoy's neighb'ring vale
Fly to the covert of her shadowy wings,
And foil us at our own dexterity.
Already to those vagrants she inclines;
As if the rogues, that preach reform to others,
Like idiots, minded to reform themselves.
MARTIN.
Be cautious, brother: you may lose the lady.
Be cautious, brother: you may lose the lady.
BENEDICT.
She is already lost—or ne'er was ours.
I cannot dupe, and therefore must destroy her:
Involve her house in ruin so prodigious,
That neither she nor Edmund may survive it,
She is already lost—or ne'er was ours.
I cannot dupe, and therefore must destroy her:
Involve her house in ruin so prodigious,
That neither she nor Edmund may survive it,
MARTIN.
How may this be accomplish'd?
How may this be accomplish'd?
BENEDICT.
Ask me not.
From hints long treasur'd up, from broken phrase
In frenzy dropp'd, but vibrating from truth:
Nay, from her caution to explain away
What the late tempest of her soul had utter'd,
I guess her fatal secret—or, no matter—
Ask me not.
From hints long treasur'd up, from broken phrase
In frenzy dropp'd, but vibrating from truth:
Nay, from her caution to explain away
What the late tempest of her soul had utter'd,
I guess her fatal secret—or, no matter—
Say,