Med. Thine honour’s past, indeed.
Isa. Then there’s no hope of absolute remission?
Med. For that your holy confessor will tell you;
Be dead to this world, for I swear you die, 110
Were you my father’s daughter.
Isa. Can you do nothing, my Lord Cardinal?
Car. More than the world, sweet lady; help to save
What hand of man wants power to destroy.
Isa. You’re all for this world, then why not I?
Were you in health and youth, like me, my lord,
Although you merited the crown of life,
And stood in state of grace assured of it,
Yet in this fearful separation,
Old as you are, e’en till your latest gasp, 120
You’d crave the help of the physician,
And wish your days lengthen’d one summer longer.
Though all be grief, labour, and misery,
Yet none will part with it, that I can see.
Med. Up to the scaffold with her, ’tis late.
Isa. Better late than never, my good lord; you think
You use square dealing, Medina’s mighty duke,
Tyrant of France, sent hither by the devil.
[She ascends the scaffold.
Med. The fitter to meet you.