SCENE XII.

_Young_ Laroon, Martin.

_Mart._ _Isabel_, _Isabel_, where are you?

_Yo. Lar._ Here.

_Mart._ Come to my Arms, my Angel.

_Yo. Lar._ I hope you are in no frightful Shape.

_Mart._ I am in the Shape of that very good Man thy Confessor, honest Father _Martin_. Let me embrace thee, my Love, my Charmer.

_Yo. Lar._ Bless me, what do you mean?

_Mart._ The Words even of a Spirit cannot tell you what I mean. Lead me to thy Bed, there shalt thou know my Meaning. There will we repeat those Pleasures which this Day I gave thee in another Shape--Tread softly, my dearest, sweetest! This Night shall make thee Mother to a Pope. [Laroon _leads him out._