Bert. Bad men, when ’tis their interest, may do good. 
I must confess, I counselled Sancho’s murder;
And urged the queen by specious arguments: 
But, still suspecting that her love was changed,
I spread abroad the rumour of his death,
To sound the very soul of her designs. 
The event, you know, was answering to my fears;
She threw the odium of the fact on me,
And publicly avowed her love to you.

Raym. Heaven guided all, to save the innocent.

Bert. I plead no merit, but a bare forgiveness.

Tor. Not only that, but favour.  Sancho’s life,
Whether by virtue or design preserved,
Claims all within my power.

Leo. My prayers are heard;
And I have nothing farther to desire,
But Sancho’s leave to authorise our marriage.

Tor. Oh! fear not him! pity and he are one;
So merciful a king did never live;
Loth to revenge, and easy to forgive. 
  But let the bold conspirator beware,
  For heaven makes princes its peculiar care. [Exeunt.

Footnotes: 
1.  Alluding to the common superstition, that the continuance of the
   favours of fairies depends upon the receiver’s secrecy:—­“This is
   fairy gold, boy, and ’twill prove so:  up with it, keep it close;
   home, home, the nearest way.  We are lucky, boy, and, to be so
   still, requires nothing but secrecy;” Winter’s Tale.

2.  A red cross, with the words, “Lord have mercy upon us,” was placed,
   during the great plague, upon the houses visited by the disease.

EPILOGUE.

BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S.

There’s none, I’m sure, who is a friend to love,
But will our Friar’s character approve: 
The ablest spark among you sometimes needs
Such pious help, for charitable deeds. 
Our church, alas! (as Rome objects) does want
These ghostly comforts for the falling saint: 
This gains them their whore-converts, and may be
One reason of the growth of popery. 
So Mahomet’s religion came in fashion,
By the large leave it gave to fornication. 
Fear not the guilt, if you can pay for’t well;
There is no Dives in the Roman Hell: 
Gold opens the strait gate, and lets him in;
But want of money is a mortal sin. 
For all besides you may discount to heaven,
And drop a bead to keep the tallies even. 
How are men cozened still with shows of good! 
The bawd’s best mask is the grave friar’s hood;
Though vice no more a clergyman displeases,
Than doctors can be thought to hate diseases. 
’Tis by your living ill, that they live well,
By your debauches, their fat paunches swell. 
’Tis a mock-war between the priest and devil;
When they think fit, they can be very civil. 
As some, who did French counsels most advance,
To blind the world, have railed in print at France,