Marg. Aye, the Pope.
Cath. Nay, not the Pope. You are dreaming, dreaming, Child,
This working with the sick, hath turned your brain.
Marg. Nay mother, ’twere a blessing, were I mad.
’Tis only but too true, I heard it now
Out in the market. Gerbhert heard it too,
And he hath gone. O God! yes he hath gone,
And on his face the doom of Death was writ.
Cath. Mother of heaven! and it hath come to this.
Is there no God, that men in heaven’s name