_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._