_Jac. Fos._ My poor mother, for my birth, 160 And me for having lived, and you yourself (As I forgive you), for the gift of life, Which you bestowed upon me as my sire. _Mar._ What hast thou done? _Jac. Fos._ Nothing. I cannot charge My memory with much save sorrow: but I have been so beyond the common lot Chastened and visited, I needs must think That I was wicked. If it be so, may What I have undergone here keep me from A like hereafter! _Mar._ Fear not: _that's_ reserved 170 For your oppressors. _Jac. Fos._ Let me hope not. _Mar._ Hope not? _Jac. Fos._ I cannot wish them _all_ they have inflicted. _Mar._ _All!_ the consummate fiends! A thousandfold May the worm which never dieth feed upon them! _Jac. Fos._ They may repent. _Mar._ And if they do, Heaven will not Accept the tardy penitence of demons. _Enter an Officer and Guards_. _Offi._ Signor! the boat is at the shore--the wind Is rising--we are ready to attend you. _Jac. Fos._ And I to be attended. Once more, father, Your hand! _Doge_. Take it. Alas! how thine own trembles! 180 _Jac. Fos._ No--you mistake; 'tis yours that shakes, my father. Farewell! _Doge_. Farewell! Is there aught else? _Jac. Fos._ No--nothing. [_To the Officer_. Lend me your arm, good Signor. _Offi._ You turn pale-- Let me support you--paler--ho! some aid there! Some water! _Mar._ Ah, he is dying! _Jac. Fos._ Now, I'm ready-- My eyes swim strangely--where's the door? _Mar._ Away! Let me support him--my best love! Oh, God! How faintly beats this heart--this pulse! _Jac. Fos._ The light! _Is_ it the light?--I am faint. [_Officer presents him with water_. _Offi._ He will be better, Perhaps, in the air. _Jac. Fos._ I doubt not. Father--wife-- 190 Your hands! _Mar._ There's death in that damp, clammy grasp.[74] Oh, God!--My Foscari, how fare you? _Jac. Fos._ Well! [_He dies_. _Offi._ He's gone! _Doge_. He's free. _Mar._ No--no, he is not dead; There must be life yet in that heart--he could not[bs] Thus leave me. _Doge_. Daughter! _Mar._ Hold thy peace, old man! I am no daughter now--thou hast no son. Oh, Foscari! _Offi._ We must remove the body.