Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when Rome’s too rich to take!
Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher’s see
Were so o’ercursed by Mammon! But you grieve,
I know, to see foul weeds of heresy
Of late o’errun your diocese.
Bishop. Ay, curse them!
I’ve hanged some dozens.
Con. Worthy of yourself!
But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph—
Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze
May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale
Of Holy Church again—
Bishop. To singe their wings?
Con. They’ll not come near enough. Again—there are
Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert
A churchman’s energies were better spent
In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark—
Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope
To this her huge capacity for sainthood—
Set her, a burning and a shining light
To all your people—Such a sacrifice,
Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood,
Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise
For the next world as for this; will clear your name
From calumnies which argue worldliness;
Buy of itself the joys of paradise;
And clench your lordship’s interest with the pontiff.
Bishop. Well, well, we’ll think on’t.
Con. Sir, I doubt you not.
[Re-enter Elizabeth.]
Eliz. Uncle, I am determined.