No More Learning

With death, and chains, and exile in his hand,
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit;
They are his weapons, not his armour, for
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart.
I care not for his frowns! We can but die,
And he but live, for him the very worst 320
Of destinies: each day secures him more
His tempter's.

_Jac. Fos. _ This is mere insanity.

_Mar. _ It may be so; and _who_ hath made us _mad_?

_Lor. _ Let her go on; it irks not me.

_Mar. _ That's false!
You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs! You came
To be sued to in vain--to mark our tears,
And hoard our groans--to gaze upon the wreck
Which you have made a Prince's son--my husband;
In short, to trample on the fallen--an office 330
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him!
How have you sped?
We are wretched, Signor, as
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us,
And how _feel you_?

_Lor. _ As rocks.

_Mar. _ By thunder blasted:
They feel not, but no less are shivered. Come,
Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon,
The sole fit habitant of such a cell,
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly
Till he himself shall brood in it alone.

_Enter the_ DOGE.

_Jac. Fos. _ My father!

_Doge_ (_embracing him_). Jacopo! my son--my son! 340

_Jac. Fos. _ My father still!