Liber Conciliorum,—saw his doom—
Perchance the rack and Secret Prisons—writ
Upon the parchment!—Silence, mocking lutes!
Come, rain! come, whirlwind, blot the lanterns out:
Now knew he their insidious subterfuge—
The slippery Pharisees—to undermine
Coimbra’s last bright paragon,—they claimed
Another victim!—But his rage gave way
To grief; his scorn was all to blame; no scheme
Was theirs; Suarez spoke the Council’s words