Doth vanish past, like day at evening’s hour,
When only sweet thoughts stay. Must go so soon?
Beat. Yea, My Lord, but I will come again.
Enter an Abbot and several Monks dragging an old man with a long beard, who is accused of witchcraft. The Abbot and Monks fall on their faces. The old man stands.
Hild. Stand! (They all stand up trembling.) Who be this?
Ab. Most Holy Pope, Vicar of Christ, Lord of the Church, Keeper of the Keys;—
Hild. Nay. Make thy speech brief!
Ab. Most Holy,—that is to say, we are accursed.
Hild. Even so. Ye look it. Proceed!
Monks. Yea! yea! um! um!