University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A street in Venice.
Enter Giacomo, meeting Maria.
Gia.
—Heigho! Maria! what terrible times these be!

Mar.
—The times are good enough—we blame the age
For errors that we should amend ourselves.
The world is never over old for us
T' improve our manners in it. Tell me, doth
Not Julian stand acquitted?

Gia.
By the law.
But by the lawless passion of his father,
Condemned to any misery that ill-luck
Can lead him to, and she is seldom slow
To help us down the precipice of ruin.
How did my lady bear the tidings?

Mar.
As
The tender sapling bears the light'ning's flash—
She fell a shivered victim to the earth!
And now you might as well expect fresh leaves
To blossom on the blasted tree, as hope
To see her ever smile again!

Gia.
Alas!
And yet they dare to question woman's love!
God bless her! life indeed were but a desert,
Unless the flower of woman's loveliness
Bloomed o'er the waste and beautified the scene!

Mar.
—Thank heav'n, time hath not hardened all our natures!
Some still are living who deserve to live,
And thou art one of these, good Giacomo?
How can you find the Signor Julian?

Gia.
Ah!
I know no more than you, Maria. Report
Rumours his having fled to hide his sorrow
And broken fortunes in the solitudes
Of the Euganean hills—he cannot brook
The heartless gaze of public scrutiny.
The Barbarigo, too, hath bought his freedom,
And Julian's boiling wrath would prompt his arm
To blot the memory of his injury out
With blood, if he remained in Venice.

Mar.
Ah!
They will compel my lady to espouse
The Barbarigo: for, in Venice, titles,
Wealth, and a palace, laugh to scorn the poor
Pretensions of an honorable heart,
Like Julian's, that is rich in honor only,
And his too fatal passion for my mistress!

Gia.
—Would Julian knew her constancy!

Mar.
He could not—
Dared not doubt it for a single instant!

Gia.
—Maria! I, an old man, may be pardon'd
To say the best of us forget each other,
As fortune gives or takes away her favours.

Mar.
—Oh! not Bianca! while her sense remains
Unwarped by these disasters, she will cling,
Like ivy, to her faith—by heaven she will!

Enter Lorenzo's Wife.
Wife.
—Giacomo! where, O! where is my poor boy?
What bosom must that be to tear asunder
The fibres of its old affections thus,
And thrust its offspring on the cruel world!
The infant that clung sleeping to his heart!
The child that from his knee looked up and smiled
Hope, peace, and joy into a father's face!
The boy that grew beside him in his sports,
Free as the breeze and graceful as the fawn!
The man that proudly honored him, and stood
The ornament of his declining years!
And then to hurl this jewel from his heart
Like an infectious and abhorr'd disease,
And trample him i' the dust of beggary—
He hath much need to ask of heaven forgiveness!

Mar.
—My lady, if good Giacomo would seek
The Signor Julian with some present aid,
Time may assist our exigencies.

Wife.
True!
If his indignant bosom hath not burst
Already, and let forth the groaning life.
Such souls as his are crushed, but never bowed.
Go, Giacomo! search every where. This purse
Will speed his fortunes for a period. Come,
Maria! come with me, and tell me how
Your poor unhappy lady bears this news.

Exeunt.