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Within his own, the soft and dimpled hand,
With one-

Cam. Oh pure as thine! Believe it, Cosmo; Pure as thine own!

Cos.

We have no father now, And we should love each other. Stay with me. I am no tyrant-brother: I'll not force Thy blooming beauty to some old man's bed For high alliance; I'll not plunge thy youth Into that living tomb where the cold nun Chants daily requiems, that thy dower may swell My coffers; I but ask of thee to stay With me in thy dear Venice, thy dear home, Thy mistress, mine. I'll be to thee, Camilla, A father, brother, lover. Stay with me. I will be very kind to thee. Cam.

This kindness is the rack.

Cos.

Oh cruel!

From exile, penury, shame

Cam.

Cos.

I would but save thee

He said so.

He!

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And thou wilt listen?

Cos. Patient as infancy. Cam.

He goes to-night;

And Inay, start not.

Cos.

What of thee?

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Cos.

She raves.

Cam.

Cos.

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Stay with me.

No.

Then go,

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I should have told thee so;

But when I would have said, Go! go! my tongue Clave to my mouth.

Fos.

Already! Write to me
Often. Is that forbidden? Yet the Doge

May ask my Candiote jailer if his prisoner
Be strictly kept. Then I shall sometimes see,
For surely he will show it me, thy name,
Thy writing, something thou hast touched. "T will be
A comfort.

Doge. I will write to thee.
Fos.

And think
Of me when the pale moon lets fall her cold
And patient light upon the Adrian wave
That sighs and trembles. Think of me then.
Doge.

By sun, or moon, or star; in the bright day,

Always

Nor gaze on the last lingering look. Why doubt'st In the night's darkness, but one single thought thou?

Fear me not-I'll be a true prisoner.

I am a Foscari still, bound by one chain,

Honour. Doge.

Send them away.

Fos.

Leave us. [Exeunt Guards. Ay, now

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A word on such a reptile! I'd a world

Of sad and loving things to say to thee,

But there's a weight just here-Oh father! father!

I thought to have been a comfort to thy age,
But I was born to spread a desolation
On all I love.

Doge. I would not change my son,
Banish'd although he be, with the proudest sire
In Christendom. But we must part. These men
Are merciless.
Fos.

Implore no grace of them.

And yet to leave this brave and tender heart
To wither in its princely solitude,
Friendless, companionless.

Doge.

One sure friend-Death. Fos.

Will dwell in my old heart-My banished son. Cam. Alas! Francesco, why wilt thou prolong This useless agony?

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Age hath one friend,

Oh I shall not be by

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To close thine eyes or kneel beside thy couch, Or gather from thy lips the last fond sound

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Which was to me a god, have I not offered My child upon the altar? Is the sacrifice Still incomplete? Farewell! farewell!

Zeno.

Francesco,

Embark not till ye hear from me.-My lord, This way.

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The whole world shall not part us. Fos. Mine! Mine own! My very own! I've lost wealth, country, home, Fame, friends, and father; I have nothing left Save thee, my dear one; but with thee I'm rich, [Exeunt Doge and Zeno. And great, and happy. Now let us go forth Into our banishment. Give me thy hand, My wife.

Doge. I pray you pardon me-I'm oldI'm very old.

Cam. Nay, sit not shivering there Upon the ground. Hast thou no word for me, Francesco?

Fos. Is he gone? Quite gone? For ever? Cam. Take comfort. Fos. Is he gone? I did not say Farewell, nor God be with thee! When men part From common friends for a slight summer voyage, They cry Heaven speed thee! and I could not say Farewell to my dear father, nor call down One benison on that white reverend head Which I shall never see again. There breathes not A wretch so curst as I.

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Fortune, and friends, and home, to fly from them
Were nothing-but she leaves the unburied corse
Of her dead father, the dear privilege
To sit and watch till the last hour, to strew
His body with sweet flowers like a bank in spring,
Making death beautiful, to follow him
To his cold bed, and drop slow heavy tears
To the bell's knolling. She leaves grief to go
With me, whom the world calls-Oh matchless love,
Life could not pay thee! Matchless, matchless love!
Cam. He, that blest spirit, knows thy innocence:
And I-I never doubted.

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Hold them asunder, Count, and in my prayers
Thou shalt be sainted! Help. [Camilla rushes out.
Fos.
Give me a sword!
Cos. Ay his or mine. I am so strongly armed
In my most righteous cause, I would encounter
A mailed warrior with a willow wand.
Eriz. There is my weapon.
Fos.

Why thou wast my foe!
But this is such a bounty as might shame
The princely hand of friendship. Not the blade
Girt by a crowned Duke around my loins,
An Emperor's gift, the day I won my spurs
In the Suabian victory, not that knightly sword

Was welcomer than this.

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Work for me.-Ha!

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Cam. (behind the scene.)

Here! Here!

Move not a step. Dare not to stir. Camilla,

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Canst thou not hasten?

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Wouldst kill him o'er again?-He bleeds to death!
Father, it is thy blood.

Doge.

Who hath done this?

My son! My son!

Cam.
He is not dead. Support him.
See how his eye-lids quiver. Foscari!
"Tis I, thy wife!

Fos.

Mine own!

Cos.

And cold contempt, and bitter pardon-dared
To hurl on me fierce pardon! Ha! he shivers!
His stout limbs writhe! The insect that is born
And dies within an hour would not change lives
With Foscari. I am content. For thee
I have a tenfold curse. Long be thy reign,
Great Doge of Venice!
Doge.

Thanks, gracious heaven! Lead him to instant death.

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Cos.

Ay, I am the Doge;

[Exit Erizzo guarded.

My son!

"T is I

That am the only murderer of the earth-
I that slew him. Bring racks and axes-
Doge.

Live!
I pardon thee. He pardons thee. Live, Cosmo;
It is thy Prince's last behest. I've been
O'erlong a crowned slave. Go! dross to dross,

[Flinging off the Ducal bonnet And bruise the stones of Venice! Tell the senate There lies their diadem. Now I am free!

Now I may grieve and pity like a man!

May weep, and groan, and die! My heart may burst
Now! Start not, Zeno-Didst thou never hear

Of a broken heart? Look there.
Zeno.

Cam. My Foscari!

Fos.

Hush! He revives.

Camilla Is't Camilla?

Is she not weeping? What! canst thou weep now, │
When honour is redeemed and a bright name?
Why there should be no tear in all the world;
Gladness is come from Heaven.

Cam.

Fos.

Is life.

There's no need.

Zeno. All. Seize Erizzo, bind him.

Eriz.
The work is done, well done-Signor Donato,
I thank thee still for that-and such revenge

Is cheaply bought with life.

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Eriz. Ay! Do ye know me? Not a man of ye
But is my tool or victim. I'm your master.
This was my aim when old Donato died,
And but that Celso dared not cope with Foscari,
And sought to catch him in a subtler springe,
I had been now your Doge. And I am more.
I am your master, Sirs. Look where he lies
The towering Foscari, who yesterday
Stood statelier than the marble gods of Rome
In their proud beauty. Hearken! It is mute,
The tongue which darted words of fiery scorn,

Death! Death!

This joy

Who talked of death? I cannot die
In such a happiness. I'm well.

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That hover round us? There! There! There!
Doge.

Fos. Friends! Have they heard that I am innocent!
That I'm no murderer? That I do not shame
My father's glory? Let it be proclaimed-
Tell Venice-tell-

[dier

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JULIAN, A TRAGEDY.

TO

WILLIAM CHARLES MACREDY, Esq.

WITH HIGH ESTEEM FOR THOSE

ENDOWMENTS WHICH HAVE CAST NEW LUSTRE ON

HIS ART;

WITH WARM ADMIRATION FOR THOSE POWERS

WHICH HAVE INSPIRED,

AND THAT TASTE WHICH HAS FOSTERED, THE TRAGIC

DRAMATISTS OF HIS AGE;

WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE FOR THE ZEAL

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BERTONE, Servant to Count D'Alba. RENZI, an old Huntsman.

An ARCHBISHOP.

ANNABEL, Julian's Wife.

Nobles, Prelates, Officers, Guards, Murderers, &c.

The Scene is in and near Messina; the time of action two days.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.

THEY who in Prologues for your favours ask,
Find every season more perplex their task;
Though doubts and hopes and tremblings do not fail,
The points fall flatly and the rhymes grow stale;
Why should the Author hint their fitting parts,
In all the pomp of Verse, to "British hearts?"
Why to such minds as yours with ardour pray,
For more than justice to a first essay?
What need to show how absolute your power?
What stake awaits the issue of the hour-
How hangs the scale 'twixt agony and joy,
What bliss you nourish, or what hopes destroy?-
All these you feel;-and yet we scarce can bring
A Prologue to "the posey of a ring."

To what may we allude ?-Our plot untold
Is no great chapter from the times of old;
On no august association rests,
But seeks its earliest home in kindly breasts,-
Its scene, as inauspicious to our strain,
Is neither mournful Greece, nor kindling Spain,
But Sicily-where no defiance hurled
At freedom's foes may awe the attending world.
But since old forms forbid us to submit
A Play without a Prologue to the Pit;
Lest this be missed by some true friend of plays,
Like the dull colleague of his earlier days;
Thus let me own how fearlessly we trust
That you will yet be mercifully just.

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