English drama -- Restoration, 1660-1700; Tragedies (Drama); Venice (Italy) -- History -- 1508-1797 -- Drama
_Jaf._ Merciless, horrid slave! Ay, blood enough!
Shed blood enough, old Renault! how thou charm'st me!
_Ren._ But one thing more, and then farewell, till fate
Join us again, or sep'rate us for ever.
First let's embrace. Heav'n knows who next shall thus
Wing ye together; but let's all remember,
We wear no common cause upon our swords:
Let each man think that on his single virtue
Depends the good and fame of all the rest;
Eternal honour, or perpetual infamy.
You droop, sir.
_Jaf._ No; with most profound attention
I've heard it all, and wonder at thy virtue.
Oh, Belvidera! take me to thy arms,
And show me where's my peace, for I have lost it. [_exit._
_Ren._ Without the least remorse then, let's resolve
With fire and sword t' exterminate these tyrants,
Under whose weight this wretched country labours;
The means are only in our hands to crown them.
_Pier._ And may those pow'rs above that are propitious
To gallant minds, record this cause and bless it.
_Ren._ Thus happy, thus secure of all we wish.
Should there, my friends, be found among us one
False to this glorious enterprise, what fate,
What vengeance, were enough for such a villain?
_Ell._ Death here without repentance, hell hereafter.
_Ren._ Let that be my lot, if as here I stand,
Listed by fate among her darling sons,
Though I had one only brother, dear by all
The strictest ties of nature; could I have such a friend
Join'd in this cause, and had but ground to fear
He meant foul play; may this right hand drop from me,
If I'd not hazard all my future peace,
And stab him to the heart before you: who,
Who would do less? Wouldst thou not, Pierre, the same?
_Pier._ You've singled me, sir, out for this hard question,
As if it were started only for my sake!
Am I the thing you fear? Here, here's my bosom,
Search it with all your swords. Am I a traitor?
_Ren._ No: but I fear your late commended friend
Is little less. Come, sirs, 'tis now no time
To trifle with our safety. Where's this Jaffier?
_Spin._ He left the room just now, in strange disorder.
_Ren._ Nay, there is danger in him. I observ'd him;
During the time I took for explanation,
He was transported from most deep attention
To a confusion which he could not smother;
His looks grew full of sadness and surprise,
All which betray'd a wavering spirit in him,
That labour'd with reluctancy and sorrow.
What's requisite for safety, must be done
With speedy execution; he remains
Yet in our power: I, for my own part, wear
A dagger----
_Pier._ Well.
_Ren._ And I could wish it----
_Pier._ Where?
_Ren._ Buried in his heart.
_Pier._ Away; we're yet all friends,
No more of this, 'twill breed ill blood among us.
_Spin._ Let us all draw our swords, and search the house,
Pull him from the dark hole where he sits brooding
O'er his cold fears, and each man kill his share of him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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