vice lords it. Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last, Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch That's doomed to banishment, came weeping forth, Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she leaned, Kindly looked up, and at her grief grew sad, As if they catched the sorrows that fell from her:      Ev'n the lewd rabble, that were gathered round To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her; Governed their roaring throats, and grumbled pity:      I could have hugged the greasy rogues; they pleased me. Jaf. I thank thee for this story, from my soul; Since now I know the worst that can befall me. Ah, Pierre! I have a heart that could have borne The roughest wrong my fortune could have done me; But when I think what Belvidera feels, The bitterness her tender spirits taste of, I own myself a coward. Bear my weakness, If, throwing thus my arms about thy neck, [Embrace, I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom. Oh, I shall drown thee with my sorrows. Pierre. Burn, First, burn and level Venice to thy ruin. What! starve, like beggars' brats, in frosty weather, Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death! Thou, or thy cause, shall never want assistance, Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee:      Command my heart, thour't every way its master.       Jaf. No; there's a secret pride in bravely dying. Pierre. Rats die in holes and corners, dogs run mad Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow—      Revenge, the attribute of gods; they stamped it, With their great image, on our natures. Die! Consider well the cause that calls upon thee, And, if thou'rt base enough, die then. Remember Thy Belvidera suffers; Belvidera! Die!—damn first!—What! be decently interred In a church-yard, and mingle thy brave dust—      With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets, Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o'th' soil!  [14]     Jaf. Oh—       Pierre. Well said, out with't—swear a little—       Jaf. Swear! By sea and air; by earth, by heaven and hell, I will revenge my Belvidera's tears! [Both go to the R. Hark thee, my friend—Priuli—is—a senator! Pierre. A dog! Jaf. Agreed.  [Return to C. Pierre. Shoot him! Jaf. With all my heart! No more—where shall we meet at night? Pierre. I'll tell thee:      On the Rialto, every night at twelve, I take my evening's walk of meditation:      There we two'll meet, and talk of precious mischief. Jaf. Farewell! Pierre. At twelve. Jaf.At any hour: my plagues Will keep me waking.       [Exit Pierre, R.       (R. C.) Tell me why, good Heaven, Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit,     

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