And let off all the fire that's in my heart.
JAFF. O Belvidera! double I am a beggar --
|Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee.||355|
Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can these limbs,
Framed for the tender offices of love,
|Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty?||360|
In some far climate where our names are strangers)
For charitable succor; wilt thou then,
|When in a bed of straw we shrink together,||365|
Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love?
BELV. Oh, I will love thee, even in madness love thee.
|Though my distracted senses should forsake me||370|
Though the bare earth be all our resting-place,
Its roots our food, some clift our habitation,
|I'll make this arm a pillow for thy head;||375|
Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest;
Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning.
JAFF. Hear this, you heav'ns, and wonder how
|you made her!||380|
Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world!
Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know
Tranquillity and happiness like mine.
Like gaudy ships, th'obsequious billows fall
|And rise again, to lift you in your pride;||385|
Like a poor merchant driven on unknown land,
That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure
|In one dear casket, and saved only that,||390|
Since I must wander further on the shore,|
Thus hug my little, but my precious store;
Resolved to scorn, and trust my fate no more.
Enter PIERRE and AQUILINA.
AQUIL. By all thy wrongs, thou art dearer to my
Than all the wealth of Venice; prithee, stay,
And let us love tonight.
PIERRE. No: there's fool,
There's fool about thee. When a woman sells
|Her flesh to fools, her beauty's lost to me;||5|
Even spoils complexions with their own nauseous-ness;
They infect all they touch; I cannot think
|Of tasting any thing a fool has palled.||10|
AQUIL. I loathe and scorn that fool thou mean'st,
Or more than thou canst; but the beast has gold
That makes him necessary; power too,
To qualify my character, and poise me
|Equal with peevish virtue, that beholds||15|
Sits in their faces, and frights pleasures from 'em.
PIERRE. Much good may't do you, madam, with your senator.
AQUIL. My senator! why, canst thou think that
To foil1 himself at what he is unfit for,
Because I force myself to endure and suffer him,
|Think'st thou I love him? No, by all the joys||25|
A mere memento mori to poor woman.
I never lay by his decrepit side
|But all that night I pondered on my grave.||30|
PIERRE. Would he were well sent thither!
AQUIL. That's my wish, too:
For then, my Pierre, I might have cause with pleasure
To play the hypocrite. Oh! how I could weep
Over the dying dotard, and kiss him too,
In hopes to smother him quite; then, when the
Would make me out-act a real widow's whining)
How could I frame my face to fit my mourning!
|With wringing hands attend him to his grave;||40|
There like the Ephesian matron2 dwell, till thou,
My lovely soldier, comest to my deliverance;
|Then throwing up my veil, with open arms||45|