Than compromise be purchased at such price,
And sell the Church’s right to impious hounds,
And make the temple of God a den of thieves.
Go, Peter, go, your heart is like the rest.
Go, leave me, I am but a poor old man,
Weak, palsied, leaning slowly to my tomb,
I need no friend, God will be merciful,
Though cold and rude earth’s loves, I can but die.
Pet. Thou knowest, Gregory, I will never leave thee.
Hild. ’Twill not be long, and then they’ll have their will,