No More Learning

_Sir Jol. _ A murdered man, sir?

_Sir Dav. _ Yes, a murdered man, sir. Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, I
am sorry to see a person of your character and figure in the
parish concerned in a murder, I say.

_Sir Jol. _ Here's a dog! here's a rogue for you! here's a
villain! here's a cuckoldy son of his mother! I never knew a
cuckold in my life that was not a false rogue in his heart;
there are no honest fellows living but whore-masters. Hark you,
sir, what a pox do you mean? you had best play the fool, and
spoil all, you had; what's all this for?

_Sir Dav. _ When your worship's come to be hanged, you'll find
the meaning on't, sir. I say once more, search the house.

_Const. _ It shall be done, sir. Come along, friends.

[_Exeunt_ Constable _and_ Watch.

_Sir Jol. _ Search my house! O Lord! search my house! what will
become of me? I shall lose my reputation with man and woman,
and nobody will ever trust me again. O Lord! search my house!
all will be discovered, do what I can! I'll sing a song like a
dying swan, and try to give them warning.

Go from the window, my love, my love, my love,
Go from the window, my dear;
The wind and the rain
Have brought 'em back again,
And thou canst have no lodging here. [56]

O Lord! search my house!

_Sir Dav. _ Break down that door, I'll have that door broke
open; break down that door, I say. [_Knocking within. _

_Sir Jol. _ Very well done; break down my doors, break down my
walls, gentlemen! plunder my house! ravish my maids! Ah, cursed
be cuckolds, cuckolds, constables, and cuckolds!

_A door is opened and discovers_ BEAUGARD _and_ Lady DUNCE.
_Re-enter_ Constable _and_ Watch.

_Beau. _ Stand off! by Heaven, the first that comes here comes
upon his death.

_Sir Dav. _ Sir, your humble servant; I'm glad to see you are
alive again with all my heart. Gentlemen, here's no harm done,
gentlemen; here's nobody murdered, gentlemen; the man's alive,
again, gentlemen; but here's my wife, gentlemen, and a fine
gentleman with her, gentlemen; and Master Constable, I hope
you'll bear me witness, Master Constable.

_Sir Jol. _ That he's a cuckold, Master Constable.

[_Aside. _

_Beau. _ Hark ye, ye curs, keep off from snapping at my heels,
or I shall so feague[57] ye.

_Sir Jol. _ Get ye gone, ye dogs, ye rogues, ye night-toads of
the parish dungeon; disturb my house at these unseasonable
hours! get ye out of my doors, get ye gone, or I'll brain ye,
dogs, rogues, villains! [_Exeunt_ Constable _and_ Watch.

_Beau. _ And next for you, Sir Coxcomb, you see I am not
murdered, though you paid well for the performance; what think
you of bribing my own man to butcher me?

_Enter_ FOURBIN.

Look ye, sir, he can cut a throat upon occasion, and here's
another dresses a man's heart with oil and pepper, better than
any cook in Christendom.

_Four. _ Will your worship please to have one for your breakfast
this morning?

_Sir Dav. _ With all my heart, sweetheart, anything in the
world, faith and troth, ha, ha, ha! this is the purest sport,
ha, ha, ha!

_Re-enter_ VERMIN.

_Ver. _ Oh, sir, the most unhappy and most unfortunate news!
There has been a gentleman in Madam Sylvia's chamber all this
night, who, just as you went out of doors, carried her away,
and whither they are gone nobody knows.

_Sir Dav. _ With all my heart, I am glad on't, child, I would
not care if he had carried away my house and all, man. Unhappy
news, quoth-a! poor fool, he does not know I am a cuckold, and
that anybody may make bold with what belongs to me, ha, ha, ha!
I am so pleased, ha, ha, ha; I think I was never so pleased in
all my life before, ha, ha, ha!

_Beau. _ Nay, sir, I have a hank[58] upon you; there are laws
for cut-throats, sir; and as you tender your future credit,
take this wronged lady home, and use her handsomely, use her
like my mistress, sir, do you mark me? that when we think fit
to meet again, I hear no complaint of you; this must be done,
friend.

_Sir Jol. _ In troth, and it is but reasonable, very reasonable
in troth.

_L. Dunce. _ Can you, my dear, forgive me one misfortune?

_Sir Dav. _ Madam, in one word, I am thy ladyship's most
humble servant and cuckold, Sir Davy Dunce, knight, living in
Covent-garden; ha, ha, ha! well, this is mighty pretty, ha, ha,
ha!

_Enter_ SYLVIA, _followed by_ COURTINE.

_Sylv. _ Sir Jolly, ah, Sir Jolly, protect me or I'm ruined.

_Sir Jol. _ My little minikin, is it thy squeak?

_Beau. _ My dear Courtine, welcome.

_Sir Jol. _ Well, child, and what would that wicked fellow do to
thee, child? Ha! child, child, what would he do to thee?

_Sylv. _ Oh, sir, he has most inhumanly seduced me out of my
uncle's house, and threatens to marry me.

_Cour. _ Nay, sir, and she having no more grace before her eyes
neither, has e'en taken me at my word.

_Sir Jol. _ In troth, and that's very uncivilly done: I don't
like these marriages, I'll have no marriages in my house, and
there's an end on't.

_Sir Dav. _ And do you intend to marry my niece, friend?

_Cour. _ Yes, sir, and never ask your consent neither.

_Sir Dav. _ In troth, and that's very well said: I am glad on't
with all my heart, man, because she has five thousand pounds to
her portion, and my estate's bound to pay it. Well, this is the
happiest day, ha, ha, ha!

Here, take thy bride, like man and wife agree,
And may she prove as true--as mine to me.

Ha, ha, ha!

_Beau. _ Courtine, I wish thee joy: thou art come opportunely
to be a witness of a perfect reconcilement between me and that
worthy knight, Sir Davy Dunce; which to preserve inviolate,
you must, sir, before we part, enter into such covenants for
performance as I shall think fit.

_Sir Dav. _ No more to be said; it shall be done, sweetheart:
but don't be too hard upon me; use me gently, as thou didst my
wife; gently, ha, ha, ha! a very good jest, i' faith, ha, ha,
ha! or if he should be cruel to me, gentlemen, and take this
advantage over a poor cornuto, to lay me in a prison, or throw
me in a dungeon, at least--

I hope amongst all you, sirs, I shan't fail
To find one brother-cuckold out for bail. [_Exeunt. _

FOOTNOTES:

[48] Getting bespattered while roving about.

[49] Whipping.

[50] Truly.

[51] A strong inclination.

[52] Strong new wine.

[53] A writ in common law, penalty, difficulty.

[54] Eringoes, the holly plant, which was considered to be an
aphrodisiac.

[55] Another aphrodisiac.

[56] This ballad often occurs in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher,
and particularly in _Monsieur Thomas_.

[57] Whip.

[58] Hold.




EPILOGUE


With the discharge of passions much oppressed,
Disturbed in brain, and pensive in his breast,
Full of those thoughts which make the unhappy sad,
And by imagination half grown mad,
The poet led abroad his mourning muse,
And let her range, to see what sport she'd choose.
Straight, like a bird got loose, and on the wing,
Pleased with her freedom she began to sing;
Each note was echoed all the vale along,
And this was what she uttered in her song:--
Wretch, write no more for an uncertain fame,
Nor call thy muse, when thou art dull, to blame:
Consider with thyself how thou'rt unfit
To make that monster of mankind, a wit:
A wit's a toad, who, swelled with silly pride,
Full of himself, scorns all the world beside;
Civil would seem, though he good manners lacks,
Smiles on all faces, rails behind all backs.
If e'er good-natured, nought to ridicule,
Good-nature melts a wit into a fool:
Placed high like some jack-pudding in a hall,
At Christmas revels, he makes sport for all.
So much in little praises he delights,
But when he's angry, draws his pen, and writes.
A wit to no man will his dues allow;
Wits will not part with a good word that's due:
So whoe'er ventures on the ragged coast
Of starving poets, certainly is lost;
They rail like porters at the penny-post.
At a new author's play see one but sit,
Making his snarling froward face of wit,
The merit he allows, and praise he grants,
Comes like a tax from a poor wretch that wants.
O poets, have a care of one another,
There's hardly one amongst ye true to t'other:
Like Trinculos and Stephanos, ye play
The lewdest tricks each other to betray. [59]
Like foes detract, yet flattering, friend-like smile,
And all is one another to beguile
Of praise, the monster of your barren isle.
Enjoy the prostitute ye so admire,
Enjoy her to the full of your desire;
Whilst this poor scribbler wishes to retire,
Where he may ne'er repeat his follies more,
But curse the fate that wrecked him on your shore.

Now you, who this day as his judges sit,
After you've heard what he has said of wit,
Ought for your own sakes not to be severe,
But show so much to think he meant none here.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




VENICE PRESERVED;

OR,

A PLOT DISCOVERED.


[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Venice Preserved was written and acted in 1682, when the terrors of
the alleged Popish Plot had nearly subsided, and probably receives its
second title from that atrocious and equivocal scare. It is founded
on the historical novel of Saint-Réal, _Conjuration des Espagnols
contre la Venise en 1618_, though Sir Henry Wotton, who was our
ambassador to Venice at the time, calls it a French conspiracy. The
whole thing was kept as dark as possible by the Republic, and its exact
character is not easy to determine. Mr. Horatio Brown, however, by
original researches in the Venetian archives, has thrown much light
upon it in his recent charming volume of _Venetian Sketches_. Needy
French adventurers, like Pierre and Renault, appear to have inflamed
the ambition of Spanish grandees, like Osorio, Viceroy of Naples,
and Bedamar, the ambassador at Venice, to compass the ruin of the
Republic by taking advantage of gross internal corruption, the glaring
contrast between social luxury and poverty, and consequent political
discontent. But it was a rat-like hole-and-corner plot, as devoid of
civic virtue or dignity, as any Rye House plot of Otway's time, or any
American-Irish assassination club of our own.

The last time the play was performed without the omission of the comic
scenes, in which Antonio so degradingly figures, was at the special
command of George II. ; but they were condemned by the audience in
spite of royal influence. The satire upon Shaftesbury, designed in
the character of Antonio, is said to have been introduced at the
instigation of Charles II. (Derrick, _Dramatic Censor_, p. 2). In
the prologue to the play, Shaftesbury's ambition to be elected King
of Poland, which procured for him the nick-name of "Count Tapsky,"
and was ridiculed by Dryden in _The Medal_, is openly referred to.
Antonio's name and age also correspond to those of Shaftesbury. But
the parody of his style of speaking is poor. The audience on the
occasion just referred to bestowed vehement applause on Leigh and
Mrs. Currer, who acted the parts of Antonio and Aquilina. So fond
were people of buffoonery in those days that, according to Davies
(_Dramatic Miscellany_), when Pierre, defying the conspirators (Act
III. ), exclaims--"Thou die! Thou kill my friend! or thou, or thou, or
thou with that lean, withered, wretched face! "--an actor, selected for
the purpose, of a most unfortunate figure and meagre visage, presented
himself, and converted this fine passage into burlesque.

The play of _Venice Preserved_ has been several times translated into
French. Hallam observes that the _Manlius Capitolinus_ of Antoine de la
Fosse, published in 1698, and imitated from _Venice Preserved_, shows
the influence which Otway exercised abroad. Upon himself the influence
of contemporary French dramatists was in turn very marked. Lord Byron
was certainly indebted to this play in his _Marino Faliero_. An old
French critic finds fault with the tolling of the bell in Act V. "This
shocking extravagance, which in Paris would excite only contempt and
derision, strikes the English with awe. " How fashions change! Think of
Victor Hugo and _Lucrezia Borgia_!

Hallam remarked that _Venice Preserved_ had been more frequently seen
on the stage than any other play, except those of Shakespeare. He
relates that when he saw it he was affected almost to agony. According
to Mr. Archer (_Reign of Victoria. Drama_), _Venice Preserved_ was
performed under Macready at Covent Garden between 1837 and 1839. It was
revived at Sadler's Wells in 1845, with Phelps as Jaffier, and Mrs.
Warner as Belvidera.

[Illustration]


TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH. [60]

Madam,

Were it possible for me to let the world know how entirely your Grace's
goodness has devoted a poor man to your service; were there words
enough in speech to express the mighty sense I have of your great
bounty towards me, surely I should write and talk of it for ever: but
your Grace has given me so large a theme, and laid so very vast a
foundation, that imagination wants stock to build upon it. I am as one
dumb when I would speak of it; and when I strive to write, I want a
scale of thought sufficient to comprehend the height of it.

Forgive me, then, madam, if (as a poor peasant once made a present
of an apple to an emperor) I bring this small tribute, the humble
growth of my little garden, and lay it at your feet. Believe it is
paid you with the utmost gratitude; believe that so long as I have
thought to remember how very much I owe your generous nature, I will
ever have a heart that shall be grateful for it too: your Grace, next
Heaven, deserves it amply from me; that gave me life, but on a hard
condition--till your extended favour taught me to prize the gift,
and took the heavy burthen it was clogged with from me; I mean hard
fortune. When I had enemies, that with malicious power kept back and
shaded me from those royal beams whose warmth is all I have, or hope to
live by, your noble pity and compassion found me, where I was far cast
backward from my blessing, down in the rear of fortune; called me up,
placed me in the shine, and I have felt its comfort. You have in that
restored me to my native right; for a steady faith, and loyalty to my
prince, was all the inheritance my father left me: and however hardly
my ill fortune deal with me, 'tis what I prize so well that I ne'er
pawned it yet, and hope I ne'er shall part with it.

Nature and fortune were certainly in league when you were born; and as
the first took care to give you beauty enough to enslave the hearts of
all the world, so the other resolved, to do its merit justice, that
none but a monarch, fit to rule that world, should e'er possess it;
and in it he had an empire. The young prince[61] you have given him,
by his blooming virtues, early declares the mighty stock he came from;
and as you have taken all the pious care of a dear mother and a prudent
guardian to give him a noble and generous education, may it succeed
according to his merits and your wishes: may he grow up to be a bulwark
to his illustrious father, and a patron to his loyal subjects; with
wisdom and learning to assist him, whenever called to his councils;
to defend his right against the encroachments of republicans in his
senates; to cherish such men as shall be able to vindicate the royal
cause; that good and fit servants to the crown may never be lost for
want of a protector. May he have courage and conduct, fit to fight his
battles abroad, and terrify his rebels at home; and that all these may
be yet more sure, may he never, during the spring-time of his years,
when those growing virtues ought with care to be cherished, in order to
their ripening;--may he never meet with vicious natures, or the tongues
of faithless, sordid, insipid flatterers, to blast them. To conclude,
may he be as great as the hand of fortune (with his honour) shall be
able to make him; and may your Grace, who are so good a mistress, and
so noble a patroness, never meet with a less grateful servant than,

Madam,
Your Grace's entirely
devoted Creature,
THOMAS OTWAY.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[59] In the alteration of Shakespeare's _Tempest_, by Dryden and
Davenant.

[60] Louise de Kerouaille, Charles II. 's well-known mistress, who
was sent over by Louis XIV. , and who supplanted all Charles's other
mistresses, except Nell Gwyn. Wealth and honours were heaped upon her,
and her apartments at Whitehall were far more splendid, Evelyn tells
us, than the queen's. She had, of course, many enemies, one of whom,
in the same year in which Otway wrote this dedication, placed the
following lines beneath her portrait:--

"Lowly born and meanly bred,
Yet of this nation is the head;
For half Whitehall make her their court,
Though the other half make her their sport.
Monmouth's tower, Jeffery's advance,
Foe to England, spy to France,
False and foolish, proud and bold,
Ugly, as you see, and old;
In a word, her mighty Grace
Is whore in all things but her face. "

She was, however, at this time not more than thirty-seven, and survived
the king for fifty years.

[61] Charles Lennox, created Duke of Richmond in 1675, and an ancestor
of the present Duke.




PROLOGUE.
In these distracted times, when each man dreads
The bloody stratagems of busy heads;
When we have feared, three years, we know not what,
Till witnesses[62] begin to die o' the rot,
What made our poet meddle with a plot?
Was't that he fancied, for the very sake
And name of plot, his trifling play might take?
For there's not in't one inch-board evidence,
But 'tis, he says, to reason plain, and sense,
And that he thinks a plausible defence.
Were truth by sense and reason to be tried,
Sure all our swearers might be laid aside:
No, of such tools our author has no need,
To make his plot, or make his play succeed;
He of black bills has no prodigious tales,
Or Spanish pilgrims cast ashore in Wales;
Here's not one murdered magistrate at least,
Kept rank, like venison for a city feast;
Grown four days stiff, the better to prepare
And fit his pliant limbs to ride in chair:
Yet here's an army raised, though under ground,
But no man seen, nor one commission found;
Here is a traitor too that's very old,
Turbulent, subtle, mischievous, and bold;
Bloody, revengeful, and, to crown his part,
Loves fumbling with a wench with all his heart;
Till after having many changes past,
In spite of age (thanks Heaven) is hanged at last.
Next is a senator that keeps a whore,
In Venice none a higher office bore;
To lewdness every night the lecher ran:
Show me, all London, such another man,
Match him at Mother Creswold's[63] if you can.
O Poland, Poland! had it been thy lot,
T'have heard in time of this Venetian plot,
Thou surely chosen hadst one king from thence,
And honoured them, as thou hast England since.

FOOTNOTES:

[62] _i. e. _ Titus Oates and others. The prologue is full of allusions
to events of the time.

[63] The well-known Mother Creswell, a notorious procuress, who kept up
an extensive correspondence with spies and emissaries, by whom she was
informed of "the rising beauties in different parts of the kingdom. "

[Illustration:




_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _]


Duke of VENICE.
PRIULI, Father of Belvidera, a Senator.
ANTONIO, a fine speaker in the Senate.
BEDAMAR, the Spanish Ambassador.
JAFFIER, }
PIERRE, }
RENAULT, }
SPINOSA, }
THEODORE, }
ELIOT, }
REVILLIDO, } Conspirators.
DURAND, }
MEZZANA, }
BRAINVILLE, }
TERNON, }
RETROSI, }
BRABE, }
BELVIDERA.
AQUILINA, a Greek Courtesan.
Two Women, Attendants on Belvidera.
Two Women, Servants to Aquilina.
The Council of Ten.
Officer, Guard, Friar, Executioner, and Rabble.

SCENE--VENICE.

[Illustration]

_VENICE PRESERVED_;

_OR_,

_A PLOT DISCOVERED. _




ACT THE FIRST.


SCENE I. --_A Public Place. _

_Enter_ PRIULI _and_ JAFFIER.

_Priu. _ No more! I'll hear no more; begone and leave me.

_Jaff. _ Not hear me! by my suffering but you shall!
My lord, my lord! I'm not that abject wretch
You think me: patience! where's the distance throws
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me?

_Priu. _ Have you not wronged me?

_Jaff. _ Could my nature e'er
Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself,
To gain a hearing from a cruel father!
Wronged you?

_Priu. _ Yes, wronged me: in the nicest point,
The honour of my house, you've done me wrong.
You may remember,--for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness,--when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation,
Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you,
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits:
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too,
My very self was yours; you might have used me
To your best service; like an open friend,
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine;
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practised to undo me;
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom--
O Belvidera!

_Jaff. _ 'Tis to me you owe her;
Childless you had been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct, no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past
Since in your brigantine you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke,[64]
And I was with you: your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock, when to your boat
You made for safety; entered first yourself:
The affrighted Belvidera, following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave washed off into the deep;
When instantly I plunged into the sea,
And, buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize:
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms.
Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul; for from that hour she loved me,
Till for her life she paid me with herself.

_Priu. _ You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her,
At dead of night, that cursèd hour you chose
To rifle me of all my heart held dear.
May all your joys in her prove false like mine!
A sterile fortune, and a barren bed,
Attend you both! continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter and grievous! still
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you, till at last you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion!

_Jaff. _ Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain;
Heaven has already crowned our faithful loves
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty:
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire,
And happier than his father!

_Priu. _ Rather live
To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears
With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy mother
Sits down and weeps in bitterness of want.

_Jaff. _ You talk as if 'twould please you.

_Priu. _ 'Twould, by Heaven!
Once she was dear indeed; the drops that fell
From my sad heart when she forgot her duty,
The fountain of my life, were not so precious!
But she is gone, and if I am a man
I will forget her.

_Jaff. _ Would I were in my grave!

_Priu. _ And she too with thee;
For, living here, you're but my curst remembrancers
I once was happy.

_Jaff. _ You use me thus, because you know my soul
Is fond of Belvidera: you perceive
My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me.
Oh! could my soul ever have known satiety,
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs
As you upbraid me with, what hinders me,
But I might send her back to you with contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder?

_Priu. _ You dare not do't.

_Jaff. _ Indeed, my lord, I dare not.
My heart, that awes me, is too much my master:
Three years are past since first our vows were plighted,
During which time, the world must bear me witness,
I've treated Belvidera like your daughter,
The daughter of a senator of Venice:
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded;
Out of my little fortune I have done this,
Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I loved her for herself,
Not as the heiress of the great Priuli--

_Priu. _ No more!

_Jaff. _ Yes, all! and then adieu for ever.
There's not a wretch that lives on common charity
But's happier than me: for I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty; every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never waked but to a joyful morning;
Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn,
Whose blossom 'scaped, yet's withered in the ripening.

_Priu. _ Home, and be humble, study to retrench;
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall,
Those pageants of thy folly;
Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state;
Then to some suburb-cottage both retire;
Drudge, to feed loathsome life; get brats, and starve.
Home, home, I say. [_Exit. _

_Jaff_. Yes, if my heart would let me--
This proud, this swelling heart: home I would go,
But that my doors are hateful to mine eyes,
Filled and dammed up with gaping creditors,
Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring;
I have now not fifty ducats in the world,
Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin.
O, Belvidera! oh! she is my wife--
And we will bear our wayward fate together,
But ne'er know comfort more.

_Enter_ PIERRE.

_Pier_. My friend, good-morrow!
How fares the honest partner of my heart?
What, melancholy! not a word to spare me?

_Jaff_. I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damned starving quality
Called honesty got footing in the world.

_Pier_. Why, powerful villany first set it up,
For its own ease and safety: honest men
Are the soft easy cushions on which knaves
Repose and fatten. Were all mankind villains,
They'd starve each other; lawyers would want practice,
Cut-throats rewards; each man would kill his brother
Himself, none would be paid or hanged for murder.
Honesty was a cheat invented first
To bind the hands of bold deserving rogues,
That fools and cowards might sit safe in power,
And lord it uncontrolled above their betters.

_Jaff_. Then honesty's but a notion?

_Pier_. Nothing else:
Like wit, much talked of, not to be defined,
He that pretends to most, too, has least share in't;
'Tis a ragged virtue: honesty! no more on't.

_Jaff. _ Sure thou art honest?

_Pier. _ So indeed men think me;
But they're mistaken, Jaffier: I am a rogue
As well as they;
A fine, gay, bold-faced villain, as thou seest me:
'Tis true, I pay my debts when they're contracted;
I steal from no man; would not cut a throat
To gain admission to a great man's purse,
Or a whore's bed; I'd not betray my friend,
To get his place or fortune: I scorn to flatter
A blown-up fool above, or crush the wretch
Beneath me. --
Yet, Jaffier, for all this, I am a villain.

_Jaff. _ A villain!

_Pier. _ Yes, a most notorious villain:
To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures,
And own myself a man; to see our senators
Cheat the deluded people with a show
Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of.
They say, by them our hands are free from fetters,
Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds;
Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow;
Drive us like wrecks down the rough tide of power,
Whilst no hold's left to save us from destruction:
All that bear this are villains, and I one,
Not to rouse up at the great call of nature,
And check the growth of these domestic spoilers,
That make us slaves, and tell us 'tis our charter.

_Jaff. _ O Aquilina! friend, to lose such beauty,
The dearest purchase of thy noble labours!
She was thy right by conquest, as by love.

_Pier. _ O Jaffier! I'd so fixed my heart upon her,
That wheresoe'er I framed a scheme of life
For time to come, she was my only joy,
With which I wished to sweeten future cares;
I fancied pleasures, none but one that loves
And dotes as I did can imagine like them:
When in the extremity of all these hopes,
In the most charming hour of expectation,
Then when our eager wishes soar the highest,
Ready to stoop and grasp the lovely game,
A haggard owl, a worthless kite of prey,
With his foul wings sailed in, and spoiled my quarry.

_Jaff. _ I know the wretch, and scorn him as thou hat'st him.

_Pier. _ Curse on the common good that's so protected,
Where every slave that heaps up wealth enough
To do much wrong becomes a lord of right!
I, who believed no ill could e'er come near me,
Found in the embraces of my Aquilina
A wretched, old, but itching senator;
A wealthy fool, that had bought out my title;
A rogue, that uses beauty like a lamb-skin,
Barely to keep him warm: that filthy cuckoo, too,
Was in my absence crept into my nest,
And spoiling all my brood of noble pleasure.

_Jaff. _ Didst thou not chase him thence?

_Pier. _ I did; and drove
The rank, old, bearded Hirco stinking home:
The matter was complained of in the senate,
I summoned to appear, and censured basely,
For violating something they call privilege.
This was the recompense of all my service;
Would I'd been rather beaten by a coward!
A soldier's mistress, Jaffier, 's his religion;
When that's profaned, all other ties are broken;
That even dissolves all former bonds of service,
And from that hour I think myself as free
To be the foe as e'er the friend of Venice--
Nay, dear Revenge! whene'er thou call'st I'm ready.

_Jaff. _ I think no safety can be here for virtue,
And grieve, my friend, as much as thou, to live
In such a wretched state as this of Venice,
Where all agree to spoil the public good,
And villains fatten with the brave man's labours.

_Pier. _ We've neither safety, unity, nor peace,
For the foundation's lost of common good;
Justice is lame as well as blind amongst us;
The laws (corrupted to their ends that make them)
Serve but for instruments of some new tyranny,
That every day starts up to enslave us deeper:
Now could this glorious cause but find out friends
To do it right--O Jaffier! then mightst thou
Not wear these seals of woe upon thy face:
The proud Priuli should be taught humanity,
And learn to value such a son as thou art.
I dare not speak; but my heart bleeds this moment!

_Jaff. _ Curst be the cause, though I thy friend be part on't!
Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom,
For I am used to misery, and perhaps
May find a way to sweeten it to thy spirit.

_Pier. _ Too soon it will reach thy knowledge--

_Jaff. _ Then from thee
Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friendship
Would make the saddest tale of sorrow pleasing,
Strengthen my constancy, and welcome ruin.

_Pier. _ Then thou art ruined!

_Jaff. _ That I long since knew;
I and ill fortune have been long acquainted.

_Pier. _ I passed this very moment by thy doors,
And found them guarded by a troop of villains;
The sons of public rapine were destroying:
They told me, by the sentence of the law
They had commission to seize all thy fortune:
Nay, more; Priuli's cruel hand hath signed it.
Here stood a ruffian, with a horrid face,
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate,
Tumbled into a heap for public sale:
There was another making villanous jests
At thy undoing; he had ta'en possession
Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments,
Rich hangings, intermixed and wrought with gold;
The very bed which on thy wedding-night
Received thee to the arms of Belvidera,
The scene of all thy joys, was violated
By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon-villains,
And thrown amongst the common lumber.

_Jaff. _ Now, thank Heaven--

_Pier. _ Thank Heaven! for what?

_Jaff. _ That I'm not worth a ducat.

_Pier. _ Curse thy dull stars, and the worse fate of Venice,
Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false;
Where there's no trust, no truth; where innocence
Stoops under vile oppression, and 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,
Shining through tears, like April-suns in showers,
That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em,
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!
Even 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.

_Jaff. _ 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 spirit tastes of,
I own myself a coward: bear my weakness,
If, throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom.
Oh, I shall drown thee with my sorrows!

_Pier. _ 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: thou'rt every way its master.

_Jaff. _ No; there's a secret pride in bravely dying.

_Pier. _ 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 dirty winding-sheets,
Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung of the soil?

_Jaff. _ Oh!

_Pier. _ Well said, out with it, swear a little--

_Jaff. _ Swear!
By sea and air, by earth, by Heaven and hell,
I will revenge my Belvidera's tears!
Hark thee, my friend: Priuli--is--a senator!