_Offi._ My lords, more traitors; Seized in the very act of consultation; Furnished with arms and instruments of mischief.-- Bring in the prisoners. _Enter_ PIERRE, RENAULT, THEODORE, ELIOT, REVILLIDO, _and other_ Conspirators, _in fetters,_ _guarded_. _Pier._ You, my lords and fathers (As you are pleased to call yourselves) of Venice, If you sit here to guide the course of justice, Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs That have so often laboured in your service? Are these the wreaths of triumphs ye bestow On those that bring you conquests home, and honours? _Duke._ Go on; you shall be heard, sir. _Ant._ And be hanged, too, I hope. _Pier._ Are these the trophies I've deserved for fighting Your battles with confederated powers? When winds and seas conspired to overthrow you, And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbours; When you, great Duke, shrunk trembling in your palace, And saw your wife, the Adriatic, ploughed, Like a lewd whore, by bolder prows than yours, Stepped not I forth, and taught your loose Venetians The task of honour, and the way to greatness; Raised you from your capitulating fears, To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace? And this my recompense? If I'm a traitor, Produce my charge; or show the wretch that's base enough And brave enough to tell me I'm a traitor. _Duke._ Know you one Jaffier? [_All the_ Conspirators _murmur_. _Pier._ Yes, and know his virtue. His justice, truth, his general worth, and sufferings From a hard father, taught me first to love him. _Duke._ See him brought forth. _Re-enter_ JAFFIER, _guarded_. _Pier._ My friend too bound! nay, then, Our fate has conquered us, and we must fall. Why droops the man whose welfare's so much mine, They're but one thing? These reverend tyrants, Jaffier, Call us all traitors: art thou one, my brother? _Jaff._ To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting friend, And gave up honour to be sure of ruin. All our fair hopes, which morning was to have crowned, Has this cursed tongue o'erthrown. _Pier._ So, then, all's over: Venice has lost her freedom; I my life. No more; farewell. _Duke._ Say, will you make confession Of your vile deeds, and trust the Senate's mercy? _Pier._ Cursed be your Senate; cursed your constitution; The curse of growing factions and division Still vex your councils, shake your public safety, And make the robes of government you wear. Hateful to you, as these base chains to me! _Duke._ Pardon, or death? _Pier._ Death, honourable death! _Ren._ Death's the best thing we ask, or you can give. _All Conspir._ No shameful bonds, but honourable death.