nd natural infirmities.
We shall be warm, my friends, I hope, to-morrow.

_[Renault and Conspirators retire and confer._

_Enter Pierre, r._

_Pierre._ _[To Jaffier.]_ 'T was not well done; thou shouldst
have stroked him,
And not have galled him. _[Retires to the others_

_Jaf._ (C.) _[In front.]_ Damn him, let him chew on't!
Heav'n! where am I? beset with cursed fiends,
That wait to damn me! What a devil's man,
When he forgets his nature!--hush, my heart.

_[Renault and the Conspirators advance_

_Ren._ My friends, 'tis late: are we assembled all?

_Spin._ All--all!

_Ren._ (C.) Oh! you're men, I find,
Fit to behold your fate, and meet her summons.
To-morrow's rising sun must see you all
Decked in your honours. Are the soldiers ready?

_Pierre._ All--all!

_Ren._ You, Durand, with your thousand, must possess
St. Mark's; you, Captain, know your charge already;
'Tis to secure the ducal palace:
Be all this done with the least tumult possible,
Till in each place you post sufficient guards;
Then sheathe your swords in every breast you meet.

_Jaf._ (L.) _[Aside.]_ Oh, reverend cruelty! damned, bloody
villain!

_Ren._ During this execution, Durand, you
Must in the midst keep your battalia fast:
And, Theodore, be sure to plant the cannon
That may command the streets;
This done, we'll give the general alarm,
Apply petards, and force the ars'nal gates;
Then fire the city round in several places,
Or with our cannon, if it dare resist,
Batter to ruin. But, above all, I charge you,
Shed blood enough; spare neither sex nor age,
Name nor condition: if there lives a senator
After to-morrow, though the dullest rogue
That e'er said nothing, we have lost our ends.
If possible, let's kill the very name
Of senator, and bury it in blood.

_Jaf._ _[Aside to R.]_ Merciless, horrid slave! Ay, blood
enough!
Shed blood enough, old Renault! how thou charm'st me!

_Ren._ But one thing more, and then farewell, till fate
Join us again, or sep'rate us forever:
But let us all remember,
We wear no common cause upon our swords:
Let each man think, that on his single virtue,
Depends the good and fame of all the rest;
Eternal honour, or perpetual infamy.
You droop, sir.