_Priuli._ And she, too, with thee: For, living here, you're but my cursed remembrances, I once was happy! _Jaf._ You use me thus, because you know my soul Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs As you upbraid me with, what hinders me But I might send her back to you with contumely, And court my fortune where she would be kinder? _Priuli._ You dare not do't. _Jaf._ Indeed, my lord, I dare not. My heart, that awes me, is too much my master: Three years are past since first our vows were plighted, During which time, the world must bear me witness, I've treated Belvidera like your daughter, The daughter of a senator of Venice: Distinction, place, attendance, and observance, Due to her birth, she always has commanded: Out of my little fortune, I've done this; Because, (though hopeless e'er to win your nature) The world might see I loved her for herself; Not as the heiress of the great Priuli. _Priuli._ No more. _Jaf._ Yes, all, and then, adieu forever. _[Pausing with clasped hands._ There's not a wretch that lives on common charity But's happier than I; for I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never waked, but to a joyful morning: Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whoso blossom 'scaped, yet's withered in the ripenin. _Priuli._ Home, and be humble; study to retrench; Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, Those pageants of thy folly: Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state: _[ Going._ Then to some suburb cottage both retire; Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats and starve-- Home, home, I say! _[Exit, R._ _Jaf._ (C.) Yes, if my heart would let me---- This proud, this swelling heart: home I would go, But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Filled and damned up with gaping creditors! I've now not fifty ducats in the world, Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin. Oh, Belvidera! Oh! she is my wife-- And we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more. _Enter Pierre, L. S. E._ _Pierre._ (L. C.) My friend, good morrow; How fares the honest partner of my heart? What, melancholy! not a word to spare me! _Jaf._ (C.) I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damned starving quality, Called honesty, got footing in the world.