s happy!

_Jaf._ You use me thus, because you know my soul
Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive
My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs
As you upbraid me with, what hinders me
But I might send her back to you with contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder?

_Priuli._ You dare not do't.

_Jaf._ Indeed, my lord, I dare not.
My heart, that awes me, is too much my master:
Three years are past since first our vows were plighted,
During which time, the world must bear me witness,
I've treated Belvidera like your daughter,
The daughter of a senator of Venice:
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded:
Out of my little fortune, I've done this;
Because, (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I loved her for herself;
Not as the heiress of the great Priuli.

_Priuli._ No more.

_Jaf._ Yes, all, and then, adieu forever.
_[Pausing with clasped hands._
There's not a wretch that lives on common charity
But's happier than I; for I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty; every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never waked, but to a joyful morning:
Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn,
Whoso blossom 'scaped, yet's withered in the ripenin.

_Priuli._ Home, and be humble; study to retrench;
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall,
Those pageants of thy folly:
Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state: _[ Going._
Then to some suburb cottage both retire;
Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats and starve--
Home, home, I say! _[Exit, R._

_Jaf._ (C.) Yes, if my heart would let me----
This proud, this swelling heart: home I would go,
But that my doors are hateful to my eyes,
Filled and damned up with gaping creditors!
I've now not fifty ducats in the world,
Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin.
Oh, Belvidera! Oh! she is my wife--
And we will bear our wayward fate together,
But ne'er know comfort more.

_Enter Pierre, L. S. E._

_Pierre._ (L. C.) My friend, good morrow;
How fares the honest partner of my heart?
What, melancholy! not a word to spare me!