Hild. My Daughter, know thy father. I am the Pope.
Marg. Nay, nay, but thou art kindly, hast no heart
To lay a winter like is laid on me?
Hild. Nay, Daughter, I am he, that awful man,
I am Pope Gregory.
Marg. Then if you be, take off this hideous curse,
Make my babe laugh and crow and stuff his hands
In rosy mouth, and speak his father’s name,
And he will come. They say thou hast God’s ear,
And He will do it.