University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A Tavern, with table and glasses.
Frederick St. Cyr, Angelo, Antonio, and other Venetian Gentlemen.
Fred.
—A curse! a curse upon your melancholy!
Why should a man be overcome by bile
T'expose his folly in the public ways,
A sign for scorn; and make our sad humanity
A thing so odious and intolerable,
That on the very beasts we look with envy?

Ang.
—You argue right, an' we could save ourselves.

Fred.
—Zounds! but if I should say you could not help
Being cheerful, you would laugh at me. Then why
Not rule our melancholy as our mirth?

Ang.
—But Julian's fortune's are adrift—the tide
Of destiny sets in upon his duty,
Threat'ning to deluge it, and yet he clings
Nobly, though sadly, to obedience.

Fred.
Bah!
Noble? Ha! ha! a slave's nobility!

Ang.
—To live, we must live in the world's opinion.

Fred.
—Life's a strange riddle, that some men do guess,
But most relinquish—never understanding.
Few, very few do guess it. These are call'd
Men of the world. The many give it up—
Are laugh'd at, cheated, cozen'd, and so die.
Or living, live in vain attempts to solve
Its mysteries—mistaking right for wrong—
Cavilling, carping, toiling, cursing, sinning
A thousand ways against observances;
And waging universal war, to hold
An inch—a hair breadth of existence here.
Enter Waiter.
What, ho! my Ganymede! some nectar, boy!

Waiter.
—More Rum?

Fred.
Oh! Rum for such as we? ye Gods!
Bacchus, Silenus! thou immortal ass,
That bore the immortal weight! is't come to this,
Men cannot judge our humours by our faces?
You are from England, and have serv'd in Grub-street,
Where poverty is still the poet's bride.
Begone, you varlet! bring me wine, with sparkles,
Shall lift my fancy to ambrosial bowers,
Where dance the Houris in Mahomet's heaven.
Nothing like wine! nought like the generous grape!

Ang.
—You seem to think so. You are drinking deep.

Fred.
—Well, so is all the world—of love or war,
Or avarice, stupidity, or something—
What matter, what, so long as worldly cares
Die with the sparkles from our goblet's glory!

Ang.
—You make the aim of living then to revel?

Fred.
—I do!—and 'till I find a sober man,
Why not!

Ant.
I'm sober.

Fred.
Nay, now, you are drunk!
Drunk with your vanity, drunk with your griefs—
Drunk with a passion for your mistress—drunk—

Ant.
—Enough, enough! Angelo, art thou drunk?

Fred.
—Ay, with his paints, his hopes of fame or gain.
The latter, if he take a friend's advice.

Ant.
—Nay, with the fame, an' he would be a man.

Fred.
—Back feather'd fame to heavy gold? you're drunk!
Angelo, heed not what the fellow says.
He's drunk, mad drunk!—paint, sir, for gold, gold, gold!
Paint portraits—flattering, false, fair faces paint!
Make ugliness angelic—tip the lie
To nature—you will starve upon the truth!

Ant.
—Then what will Julian do with poetry?

Fred.
—Write his own epitaph, and die a beggar!

Ang.
—He speaks of writing plays.

Fred.
He'll play the fool, then!
Sdeath! worse and worse! who listens to the play
In Venice now? Our senses, drunk with folly,
Reel through the streets to gape at monstrous things,
Spurned by our father's sober faculties!

Ang.
—A sermon from a sinner—how appropriate!

Fred.
Who oft'nest fall, best know the tripping place.
I own I'm drunk, but I can waken sober,
And with the morrow be a man again.
Whereas this huge intoxicated city—
Besotted with some stupid mummery,
Until its wise men and its counsellors,
Distort their gravity with vile grimaces,
And all our grey beards wag in approbation
At th' antics of some foreign mountebank—
Will wallow in its ignominy, till
Some prophet voice rolls o'er its slumbering senses,
And stirs them to their former majesty.

Ang.
—I wonder how your fellow citizens
Would hear this sweeping judgment of their virtues?

Fred.
—Like men who honor truth wherever spoken!
Let Julian make a drama of his life.
It may want kings and queens, daggers and swords,
Battles and bugles, and machinery—
Ay, that's the word—machinery, for show:
But, if calamity in her rough garb—
Grief as she is, naked, and every day
Walking our mighty city—suffering—
If truth, if nature, if unpainted scenes
Of human life, in human words, have power
To wet the eye or warm the soul of man,
By heaven! then let him write but what he's seen,
Heard, played a part in, on this busy world,
And, if it fail, I have not rightly read
The human heart—and that's my only book!
But where's this Jule? This traitor Jule! Ah! Julian!
Thou'rt no philosopher to feed thy cares
On water!
Enter waiter.
Ho! some wine!—
Get drunk, say I!
Get merrily drunk, my boys! the head ache o'er,
The conscience settled with a few potations,
You're a freemason in philosophy,
And know the panacea for all ills!
But where's my Jule? ay, I'll admonish him!

Ang.
He has a sweeter teacher far to-night.

Fred.
Sweeter? but not a truer.

Ang.
Yes, it is
Nature: and the preceptress a sweet girl.

Fred.
Bianca?

Ang.
Ay, and much I fear that villain,
The Barbarigo, thwarts his love.

Fred.
What's that?
Repeat it, friend, I'm rather elevated—
Rather above my understanding—a little!

Ang.
I say, I have been told that Barbarigo
Is Julian's rival.

Fred.
Where is Julian now?
Not present, is he? Jule, my boy! art here?

Ang.
Here? good luck! He's serenading, man!

Fred.
He's serenading woman, I should think.
Which of you will bestead me to the spot?

Ant.
Shame, man, to break a lover's sanctity!

Fred.
Sanctity! friend, I comprehend you not.
I fancy Jule's in danger—that's enough—
A friend's a friend, sir, be he drunk or sober!
Ho, there! a gondola! a gondola!

Ang.
—You cannot stir, you're hardly steady.

Fred.
Steady?
Its very likely—but a drunken friend
Is better than a sober enemy.

Ang.
—I doubt it.

Fred.
O, for shame, sir! Would you pause
To doubt when danger's near your friend—to the devil.
Go to the devil with such friendship! go!
What, ho! a gondola! a gondola!
Come, keep thy foot as steady as thy heart!
Thy hand as firm and strong as is thy friendship,
And, Master Barbarigo—ha! ha! ha!

Exit.
Ant.
—Unconscionably drunk, upon my conscience!

Aug.
—I wish his conscience stood him better friend
Than does his foolery. Come! we must look to't!

Exeunt.