@3Ines.@1 Revere our holy church; though some within Have erred, and some are slow to lead us right, Stopping to pry when staff and lamp should be In hand, and the way whiten underneath. @3Pedro.@1 Ines, the church is now a charnel-house, Where all that is not rottenness is drowth. Thou hast but seen its gate hung round with flowers, And heard the music whose serenest waves Cover its gulfs and dally with its shoals, And hold the myriad insects in light play Above it, loth to leave its sunny sides. Look at this central edifice! come close! Men's bones and marrow its materials are, Men's groans inaugurated it, men's tears Sprinkle its floor, fires lighted up with men Are censers for it; agony and anger Surround it night and day with sleepless eyes; Dissimulation, terror, treachery, Denunciations of the child, the parent, The sister, brother, lover, (mark me, Ines!) Are the peace-offerings God receives from it. @3Ines.@1 I tremble -- but betrayers tremble more. Now cease, cease, Pedro! cling I must to somewhat: Leave me one guide, one rest! Let me love God! Alone -- if it must be so! @3Pedro.@1 Him alone -- Mind; in him only place thy trust henceforth. |