Please it, your Holiness, I think it be some ghost crept out of purgatory and now is come unto your Holiness for his pardon.
It may be so.
Go then; command our priests to sing a dirge
To lay the fury of this same troublesome ghost.
[Exit an Attendant. The Pope crosses himself.]
How now! Must every bit be spiced with a cross? (3.2.80-86)