_Jaff._ Hear this, you Heavens, and wonder how you made her! Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world; Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know Tranquillity and happiness like mine: Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall And rise again, to lift you in your pride; They wait but for a storm, and then devour you: I, in my private bark, already wrecked, Like a poor merchant driven on unknown land, That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure In one dear casket, and saved only that, Since I must wander further on the shore, Thus hug my little, but my precious store; Resolved to scorn, and trust my fate no more. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration] [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [64] This ceremony (first instituted by Pope Alexander III.) took place every Ascension-day. The Doge of Venice, attended by his nobles and the senate, went in a vessel called the Bucentaur to the Adriatic sea, which he _married_ by casting a gold ring into it, using at the same time these words: "We wed thee, O Sea, in token of a true and lasting dominion," &c. This circumstance is frequently alluded to in the course of the play.--_Thornton._ ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.--_Before the House of_ AQUILINA. _Enter_ PIERRE _and_ AQUILINA. _Aquil._ By all thy wrongs, thou'rt dearer to my arms Than all the wealth of Venice: pr'ythee stay, And let us love to-night. _Pier._ No: there's fool, There's fool about thee: when a woman sells Her flesh to fools, her beauty's lost to me; They leave a taint, a sully where they've passed; There's such a baneful quality about them, Even spoils complexions with their nauseousness; They infect all they touch; I cannot think Of tasting any thing a fool has palled. _Aquil._ I loathe and scorn that fool thou mean'st, as much Or more than thou canst; but the beast has gold, That makes him necessary; power too, To qualify my character, and poise me Equal with peevish virtue, that beholds My liberty with envy: in their hearts They're loose as I am; but an ugly power Sits in their faces, and frights pleasures from them. _Pier._ Much good may't do you, madam, with your senator! _Aquil._ My senator! why, canst thou think that wretch E'er filled thy Aquilina's arms with pleasure? Think'st thou, because I sometimes give him leave To foil himself at what he is unfit for; Because I force myself to endure and suffer him, Think'st thou I love him? No, by all the joys Thou ever gav'st me, his presence is my penance: The worst thing an old man can be is a lover, A mere _memento mori_ to poor woman. I never lay by his decrepit side, But all that night I pondered on my grave. _Pier._ Would he were well sent thither!