POLONIA [arising]. Woe is me! Oh, save me, heaven! Ah, what secrets are imparted To the soul! O Lord! O Lord! Stay the red hand of Thy anger, Of Thy justice. Do not threaten, 'Gainst a woman weak and abject, The dread thunders of Thy rigour, Of Thy power the lightning's flashes. Where, oh, where shall I conceal me From Thy countenance, if haply Thou art wroth? Ye rocks, he mountains, Fall upon and overcast me. Hating mine own self, to-day Would that to my prayer 'twas granted In the centre of the earth From Thy sight to hide and mask me! Ah, but why? if wheresoever My unhappy fate might cast me There I brought with me my sin? See ye, see ye not this Atlas Back recede, and this huge mountain Tremble to its base? The axes Of the firmament are loosened, And its perfect fabric hangeth Threatening ruin o'er my head, With terrific pride and grandeur. Darker grows the air around me, Chained, my feet proceed no farther, Even the seas retire before me. What, here fly me not nor startle, Are the wild beasts, which to rend me Bit by bit come on to attack me. Mercy, mighty Lord, oh, mercy! Pardon, gracious Lord, oh, pardon! Holy baptism I implore, That in grace I may depart hence. Mortals, hear, oh, mortals hear, Christ is living, Christ is master, Christ is god, the one true God! Penance, penance, penance practice! [Exit. * * * * * SCENE XIV. THE SAME, with the exception of POLONIA. PHILIP. How prodigious! CAPTAIN. How stupendous! LESBIA. What a miracle! LEOGAIRE. What a marvel! KING. What enchantment! what bewitchment! Who can bear this? who can grant this? ALL. Christ is God, the one true God. KING. What a bold deceit is practised Here, blind people, to deceive you, In the making of these marvels, Which you have not sense to see Are in outward show but acted And within are fraud! However, That the truth be now established, I will own myself convinced, If in argument shall Patrick Prove his case: and so attend As the grave dispute advances. If the soul was made immortal It could never be inactive Even for a single moment. PATRICK. Yes; and every dream that passes Proves this truth; because the dreams That engender numerous phantoms Are discourses of the soul That ne'er sleeps, and as these shadows Simulate the imperfect actions Of the senses, a strange language And imperfect is produced; And 'tis thus that in their trances Men dream things that are at once Inconsistent and fantastic.