And we should love each other. Stay with me. I am no tyrant-brother: I'll not force Thy blooming beauty to some old man's bed For high alliance; I'll not plunge thy youth Into that living tomb where the cold nun Chants daily requiems, that thy dower may swell My coffers; I but ask of thee to stay With me in thy dear Venice, thy dear home, Thy mistress, mine. I'll be to thee, Camilla, A father, brother, lover. Stay with me. I will be very kind to thee.
Her tears are daggers. Speak.
Cos. Patient as infancy. Cam.
I'd save thee from a crime, a damning crime- Did he say that? From such a parricide, Such unimagined sin-I tell thee, girl, The Roman harlot, she the infamous That crush'd her father with her chariot-wheels, She'll be forgotten in thy monstrous guilt, Whitened by thy black shame.
Look how she trembles; she is overwatched; This is a frenzy.
Cos. Why let her go, foul stain upon our house! She was his daughter still, and yesterday An angel! And he loved her and she him
I should have told thee so;
But when I would have said, Go! go! my tongue Clave to my mouth.
Already! Write to me Often. Is that forbidden? Yet the Doge May ask my Candiote jailer if his prisoner Be strictly kept. Then I shall sometimes see, For surely he will show it me, thy name, Thy writing, something thou hast touched. "Twill be A comfort.
Doge. I will write to thee. Fos.
And think Of me when the pale moon lets fall her cold And patient light upon the Adrian wave That sighs and trembles. Think of me then. Doge.
By sun, or moon, or star; in the bright day,
Nor gaze on the last lingering look. Why doubt'st In the night's darkness, but one single thought thou?
Fear me not-I'll be a true prisoner.
I am a Foscari still, bound by one chain,
Honour. Send them away.
A word on such a reptile! I'd a world
Of sad and loving things to say to thee,
But there's a weight just here-Oh father! father! I thought to have been a comfort to thy age, But I was born to spread a desolation On all I love.
Doge. I would not change my son, Banish'd although he be, with the proudest sire In Christendom. But we must part. These men Are merciless.
Fos. And yet to leave this brave and tender heart To wither in its princely solitude, Friendless, companionless.
Implore no grace of them.
Oh I shall not be by To close thine eyes or kneel beside thy couch, Or gather from thy lips the last fond sound
Will dwell in my old heart-My banished son. Cam. Alas! Francesco, why wilt thou prolong This useless agony?
But I must pray the Doge to come with me Straight to the Senate. "T is an earnest business, I do beseech your Highness. Leave him, Foscari! Cling not together as your very souls Were interlaced. The Senate, Doge, demands thee. Fos. The Senate! What! hath he another son To try, to torture, to condemn? Hath he Another heart to break? Yet go. For once Their cruelty is mercy. Go.
Doge. Whilst still These eyes may gaze on thee! Ere yonder cloud Shall pass across the sun, a darker cloud
Will wrap me in its blackness; then the throne, The judgment seat, the grave-no matter where The old man rests his bones!--One dim eclipse Will shadow all-but now-say to the senate That at their bidding I am sending forth My son to exile.
Which was to me a god, have I not offered My child upon the altar? Is the sacrifice Still incomplete? Farewell! farewell! Zeno.
Embark not till ye hear from me.-) This way.
Doge. I pray you pardon me-I'm old- I'm very old.
He knows well. Francesco,
The whole world shall not part us.
Fos. Mine! Mine own! My very own! I've lost wealth, country, home, Fame, friends, and father; I have nothing left Save thee, my dear one; but with thee I'm rich,
[Exeunt Doge and Zeno. And great, and happy. Now let us go forth Into our banishment. Give me thy hand, My wife.
Cam. Nay, sit not shivering there Upon the ground. Hast thou no word for me, Francesco?
Fos. Is he gone? Quite gone? For ever? Cam. Take comfort. Fos. Is he gone? I did not say Farewell, nor God be with thee! When men part From common friends for a slight summer voyage, They cry Heaven speed thee! and I could not say Farewell to my dear father, nor call down One benison on that white reverend head Which I shall never see again. There breathes not A wretch so curst as I.
Fortune, and friends, and home, to fly from them Were nothing-but she leaves the unburied corse Of her dead father, the dear privilege To sit and watch till the last hour, to strew
His body with sweet flowers like a bank in spring, Making death beautiful, to follow him To his cold bed, and drop slow heavy tears To the bell's knolling. She leaves grief to go With me, whom the world calls-Oh matchless love, Life could not pay thee! Matchless, matchless love! Cam. He, that blest spirit, knows thy innocence: And I-I never doubted.
Cos. Camilla, I command thee stay- The laws of Venice give to me a power Absolute as a father's. Loose her, Sir. Let go her hand. I warn ye part. They'll drive me Into a madness. If thou be a man Let's end this quarrel bravely. Cam.
Hold them asunder, Count, and in my prayers Thou shalt be sainted! Help. [Camilla rushes out. Fos. Give me a sword! Cos. Ay his or mine. I am so strongly armed In my most righteous cause, I would encounter A mailed warrior with a willow wand. Eriz. There is my weapon. Fos.
Why thou wast my foe! But this is such a bounty as might shame The princely hand of friendship. Not the blade Girt by a crowned Duke around my loins, An Emperor's gift, the day I won my spurs In the Suabian victory, not that knightly sword Was welcomer than this. Cos.
Foscari, come on! Fos. I would thou wert a soldier!
Move not a step. Dare not to stir. Camilla,
And cold contempt, and bitter pardon-dared To hurl on me fierce pardon! Ha! he shivers! His stout limbs writhe! The insect that is born And dies within an hour would not change lives With Foscari. I am content. For thee
I have a tenfold curse. Long be thy reign, Great Doge of Venice!
Thanks, gracious heaven! Lead him to instant death. [Exit Erizzo guarded.
Zeno. Seize Count Erizzo, Guard. Have ye not That am the only murderer of the earth— I that slew him. Bring racks and axes- Doge.
What spectacle is this?-Know ye not, Sirs, That Foscari is guiltless, that the murderer Is found?
Eriz. Ay! Do ye know me? Not a man of ye But is my tool or victim. I'm your master. This was my aim when old Donato died, And but that Celso dared not cope with Foscari, And sought to catch him in a subtler springe, I had been now your Doge. And I am more. I am your master, Sirs. Look where he lies The towering Foscari, who yesterday Stood statelier than the marble gods of Rome In their proud beauty. Hearken! It is mute, The tongue which darted words of fiery scorn,
Live! I pardon thee. He pardons thee. Live, Cosmo; It is thy Prince's last behest. I've been O'erlong a crowned slave. Go! dross to dross.
[Flinging off the Ducal bonnet. And bruise the stones of Venice! Tell the senate There lies their diadem. Now I am free!
Now I may grieve and pity like a man! May weep, and groan, and die! My heart may burst Now! Start not, Zeno-Didst thou never hear
Of a broken heart? Look there.
WILLIAM CHARLES MACREDY, Esq.
WITH HIGH ESTEEM FOR THOSE ENDOWMENTS WHICH HAVE CAST NEW LUSTRE ON
WITH WARM ADMIRATION FOR THOSE POWERS
AND THAT TASTE WHICH HAS FOSTERED, THE TRAGIC
WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE FOR THE ZEAL
BERTONE, Servant to Count D'Alba. RENZI, an old Huntsman.
An ARCHBISHOP.
ANNABEL, Julian's Wife.
Nobles, Prelates, Officers, Guards, Murderers, &c.
The Scene is in and near Messina; the time of action two days.
THEY Who in Prologues for your favours ask, Find every season more perplex their task; Though doubts and hopes and tremblings do not fail, The points fall flatly and the rhymes grow stale; Why should the Author hint their fitting parts, In all the pomp of Verse, to " British hearts?" Why to such minds as yours with ardour pray, For more than justice to a first essay? What need to show how absolute your power? What stake awaits the issue of the hour- How hangs the scale 'twixt agony and joy, What bliss you nourish, or what hopes destroy?— All these you feel;-and yet we scarce can bring A Prologue to "the posey of a ring."
To what may we allude?-Our plot untold Is no great chapter from the times of old; On no august association rests, But seeks its earliest home in kindly breasts,- Its scene, as inauspicious to our strain, Is neither mournful Greece, nor kindling Spain, But Sicily-where no defiance hurled At freedom's foes may awe the attending world. But since old forms forbid us to submit A Play without a Prologue to the Pit; Lest this be missed by some true friend of plays, Like the dull colleague of his earlier days; Thus let me own how fearlessly we trust That you will yet be mercifully just.
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