_Pierre._ Thy wife; thy lovely Belvidera! I hope a man may wish his friend's wife well, And no harm done? _Jaf._ _[Retiring, L.]_ You're merry, Pierre. _Pierre._ _[Following.]_ I am so: Thou shalt smile, too, and Belvidera smile: We'll all rejoice, Here's something to buy pins; Marriage is chargeable. _[Gives him a purse._ _Jaf._ (L.) I but half wished To see the devil, and he's here already! Well! What must this buy? Rebellion, murder, treason? Tell me _[Turning R.]_ which way I must be damned for this. _Pierre._ (L. C.) When last we parted, we'd no qualms like these, But entertained each other's thoughts, like men Whose souls were well acquainted. Is the world Reformed since our last meeting? What new miracles Have happened? Has Priuli's heart relented? Can he be honest? _Jaf._ Kind Heaven, let heavy curses Gall his old age, till life become his burden; Let him groan under't long, linger an age In the worst agonies and pangs of death And find its ease, but late! _Pierre._ Nay, couldst thou not As well, my friend, have stretched the curse to all The senate round, as to one single villain? _Jaf._ But curses stick not; could I kill with cursing, By Heaven, I know not thirty heads in Venice Should not be blasted! Senators should rot, Like dogs, on dunghills. Oh, for a curse To kill with! _[Crosses, R._ _Pierre._ Daggers, daggers are much better. _Jaf._ (R. C.) Ha! _Pierre._ Daggers. _Jaf._ But where are they? _Pierre._ Oh! a thousand May be disposed, in honest hands, in Venice. _Jaf._ Thou talk'st in clouds. _Pierre._ But yet a heart, half wronged As thine has been, would find the meaning, Jaffier! _Jaf._ A thousand daggers, all in honest hands! And have not I a friend will stick one here? _Pierre._ (C.)Yes, if I thought thou wert not to be cherished To a nobler purpose, I would be that friend: _[Lays his hand on Jaffier's arm_ But thou hast better friends; friends, whom thy wrongs Have made thy friends; friends, worthy to be called so. I'll trust thee with a secret. There are spies This hour at work. But, as thou art a man, Whom I have picked and chosen from the world, Swear that thou wilt be true to what I utter; And when I've told thee that, which only gods, And men like gods, are privy to, then swear, No chance, or change, shall wrest it from thy bosom.