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Venice Preserv'd, or
What not one speak? how you stand gaping all
On your grave Oracle, your wooden God there;
Yet not a word: Then Sir I'l tell you a secret,
[To Ren. Suspition's but at best a Cowards Virtue!
On your grave Oracle, your wooden God there;
Yet not a word: Then Sir I'l tell you a secret,
[To Ren. Suspition's but at best a Cowards Virtue!
[Handles his Sword.Ren. A Coward—
Pier. Put, put up thy Sword, old Man,
Thy hand shakes at it; come let's heal this breach,
I am too hot: we yet may live Friends.
Thy hand shakes at it; come let's heal this breach,
I am too hot: we yet may live Friends.
Spino. 'Till we are safe, our Friendship cannot be so.
Pierr. Again: who's that?
Spino. 'Twas I.
Theo. And I.
Revell. And I.
Eliot. And all.
Ren. Who are on my side?
Spinos. Every honest Sword,
Let's die like men and not be sold like Slaves.
Let's die like men and not be sold like Slaves.
Pierr. One such word more, by Heav'n I'l to the Senate
And hang ye all, like Dogs in Clusters,
Why peep your Coward Swords half out their shells?
Why do you not all brandish them like mine?
You fear to die, and yet dare talk of Killing?
And hang ye all, like Dogs in Clusters,
Why peep your Coward Swords half out their shells?
Why do you not all brandish them like mine?
You fear to die, and yet dare talk of Killing?
Ren. Go to the Senate and betray us, hasten,
Secure thy wretched life, we fear to die
Less than thou dar'st be honest.
Secure thy wretched life, we fear to die
Less than thou dar'st be honest.
Pierr. That's rank falsehood,
Fear'st not thou death? fy, there's a knavish itch
In that salt blood, an utter foe to smarting.
Had Jaffeir's Wife prov'd kind, he had still been true.
Foh—how that stinks?
Thou dy! thou kill my Friend! or thou, or thou,
Or thou, with that lean wither'd wretched Face!
Away! disperse all to your several Charges,
And meet to morrow where your honour calls you,
I'l bring that man, whose blood you so much thirst for,
And you shall see him venture for you fairly—
[Ex. Renault angrily.Hence, hence, I say.
Fear'st not thou death? fy, there's a knavish itch
In that salt blood, an utter foe to smarting.
Had Jaffeir's Wife prov'd kind, he had still been true.
Foh—how that stinks?
Thou dy! thou kill my Friend! or thou, or thou,
Or thou, with that lean wither'd wretched Face!
Away! disperse all to your several Charges,
And meet to morrow where your honour calls you,
I'l bring that man, whose blood you so much thirst for,
And you shall see him venture for you fairly—
[Ex. Renault angrily.Hence, hence, I say.
Spino. I fear we have been too blame,
And done too much.
And done too much.
Theo. 'Twas too farr urg'd against the man you lov'd.
Rev.
