No More Learning

_Guard_. Confess,
And the rack will be spared you.

_Jac. Fos. _ I confessed
Once--twice before: both times they exiled me.

_Guard_. And the third time will slay you.

_Jac. Fos. _ Let them do so,
So I be buried in my birth-place: better
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere.

_Guard_. And can you so much love the soil which hates you? 140

_Jac. Fos. _ The soil!
--Oh no, it is the seed of the soil
Which persecutes me: but my native earth
Will take me as a mother to her arms.
I ask no more than a Venetian grave,
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here.

_Enter an Officer_.

_Offi. _ Bring in the prisoner!

_Guard_. Signor, you hear the order.

_Jac. Fos. _ Aye, I am used to such a summons; 'tis
The third time they have tortured me:--then lend me
Thine arm. [_To the Guard_.

_Offi. _ Take mine, sir; 'tis my duty to
Be nearest to your person.

_Jac. Fos. _ You!