_Doge_. Alas! You ever were my dearest offspring, when They were more numerous, nor can be less so 110 Now you are last; but did the State demand The exile of the disinterréd ashes Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth,[73] And their desponding shades came flitting round To impede the act, I must no less obey A duty, paramount to every duty. _Mar._ My husband! let us on: this but prolongs Our sorrow. _Jac. Fos._ But we are not summoned yet; The galley's sails are not unfurled:--who knows? The wind may change. _Mar._ And if it do, it will not 120 Change _their_ hearts, or your lot: the galley's oars Will quickly clear the harbour. _Jac. Fos._ O, ye Elements! Where are your storms? _Mar._ In human breasts. Alas! Will nothing calm you? _Jac. Fos._ Never yet did mariner Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, Ye tutelar saints of my own city! which Ye love not with more holy love than I, To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, And waken Auster, sovereign of the Tempest! 130 Till the sea dash me back on my own shore A broken corse upon the barren Lido, Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt The land I love, and never shall see more! _Mar._ And wish you this with _me_ beside you? _Jac. Fos._ No-- No--not for thee, too good, too kind! May'st thou Live long to be a mother to those children Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives Of such support! But for myself alone, May all the winds of Heaven howl down the Gulf, 140 And tear the vessel, till the mariners, Appalled, turn their despairing eyes on me, As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me Will be more merciful than man, and bear me Dead, but _still bear_ me to a native grave, From fishers' hands, upon the desolate strand, Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received One lacerated like the heart which then 150 Will be.--But wherefore breaks it not? why live I? _Mar._ To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master Such useless passion. Until now thou wert A sufferer, but not a loud one: why What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence-- Imprisonment and actual torture? _Jac. Fos._ Double, Triple, and tenfold torture! But you are right, It must be borne. Father, your blessing. _Doge_. Would It could avail thee! but no less thou hast it. _Jac. Fos._ Forgive---- _Doge_. What?