think, when he's to die, my thoughts are idle. Pierre. No! live, I charge thee, Jaffier. Jaf. Yes, I will live:      But it shall be to see thy fall revenged, At such a rate, as Venice long shall groan for Pierre. Wilt thou? Jaf. I will, by Heaven! Pierre. Then still thou'rt noble, And I forgive thee. Oh!—yet—shall I trust thee? Jaf. No; I've been false already. Pierre. Dost thou love me? Jaf. Rip up my heart, and satisfy thy doubtings. Pierre. Curse on this weakness! [ Weeps. Jaf. Tears! Amazement! Tears! I never saw thee melted thus before; And know there's something labouring in thy bosom, That must have vent; though I'm a villain, tell me. Pierre. See'st thou that engine? [Pointing to the Wheel. Jaf. Why? Pierre. (R. C.) Is't fit a soldier, who has lived with honor, Fought nations' quarrels, and been crowned with, conquest, [56]     Be exposed, a common carcase, on a wheel? Jaf. Hah! Pierre. Speak! is't fitting? Jaf. Fitting! Pierre. I'd have thee undertake Something that's noble, to preserve my memory From the disgrace that's ready to attaint it. Capt. The day grows late, sir. Pierre. I'll make haste. Oh, Jaffier! Though thou'st betrayed me, do me some way justice. Jaf. What's to be done? Pierre. This and no more. [Whispers Jaffier. Jaf. Hah! is't then so? Pierre. Most certainly. Jaf. I'll do't. Pierre. Remember. Capt. Sir—       Pierre. Come, now I'm ready.       [Captain Crossing to him]       You should be a gentleman of honour; Keep off the rabble, that I may have room To entertain my fate, and die with decency. You'll think on't?  [To Jaffier. Jaf. 'Twont grow stale before to-morrow.       [Pierre and Jaffier ascend the Scaffold—Executioner binds Pierre. Pierre. Now, Jaffier! now I'm going! Now—       Jaf. Have at thee, Thou honest heart, then!—here— [Stabs him. And this is well, too. [Stabs himself. Pierre. Now, now—thou hast indeed been faithful! This was done nobly!—We've deceived the senate. Jaf. Bravely! Pierre. Ha! ha! ha!—oh! oh!       [Falls down on the Scaffold and dies Jaf. Now, ye cursed rulers, Thus of the blood ye've shed, I make libation, And sprinkle it mingling. May it rest upon you. And all your race! Oh, poor Belvidera! Sir, I've a wife; bear this in safety to her, A token that, with my dying breath, I blessed her. [57]     And the dear little infant left behind me. I'm sick—I'm quiet. [Dies.—The Scene shuts upon them. 

[55]

[56]

 Prev. P 41/42 next