_Pier._ I pass'd this very moment by thy doors, And found them guarded by a troop of villains; The sons of public rapine were destroying. They told me, by the sentence of the law, They had commission to seize all thy fortune: Nay more, Priuli's cruel hand had sign'd it. Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face, Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate, Tumbled into a heap for public sale; There was another, making villanous jests At thy undoing: he had ta'en possession Of all thy ancient, most domestic, ornaments, Rich hangings intermix'd and wrought with gold; The very bed, which on thy wedding-night Receiv'd thee to the arms of Belvidera, The scene of all thy joys, was violated By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains, And thrown amongst the common lumber. _Jaf._ Now, thank heaven-- _Pier._ Thank heaven! for what? _Jaf._ That I'm not worth a ducat. _Pier._ Curse thy dull stars, and the worse fate of Venice, Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false; Where there's no truth, no trust; where innocence Stoops under vile oppression, and vice lords it. Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch That's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth, Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em; Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd, Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad, As if they catch'd the sorrows that fell from her. Ev'n the lewd rabble, that were gather'd round To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her; Govern'd their roaring throats, and grumbled pity. I could have hugg'd the greasy rogues: they pleas'd me. _Jaf._ I thank thee for this story, from my soul; Since now I know the worst that can befal me. Ah, Pierre! I have a heart that could have borne The roughest wrong my fortune could have done me; But when I think what Belvidera feels, The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, I own myself a coward: bear my weakness; If, throwing thus my arms about thy neck, I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom. Oh! I shall drown thee with my sorrows. _Pier._ Burn, First burn and level Venice to thy ruin. What! starve, like beggars' brats, in frosty weather, Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death! Thou or thy cause shall never want assistance, Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee: Command my heart, thou'rt every way its master. _Jaf._ No, there's a secret pride in bravely dying. _Pier._ Rats die in holes and corners, dogs run mad; Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow: Revenge, the attribute of gods; they stamp'd it, With their great image, on our natures. Die! Consider well the cause, that calls upon thee: And, if thou'rt base enough, die then. Remember, Thy Belvidera suffers; Belvidera! Die--damn first--What! be decently interr'd In a church-yard, and mingle thy brave dust With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets, Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o'th' soil! _Jaf._ Oh!