at mingles here;
But grieve to find it trusted with such tempers,
That can't forgive my froward age its weakness.

_Bed._ Elliott, thou once hadst virtue. I have seen
Thy stubborn temper bend with godlike goodness,
Not half thus courted. 'Tis thy nation's glory
To hug the foe that offers brave alliance.
Once more embrace, my friends--we'll all embrace.
United thus, we are the mighty engine
Must twist this rooted empire from its basis.
Totters not it already?

_Ell._ Would 'twere tumbling.

_Bed._ Nay, it shall down; this night we seal its ruin.

_Enter Pierre._

Oh, Pierre, thou art welcome.
Come to my breast, for by its hopes thou look'st
Lovelily dreadful, and the fate of Venice
Seems on thy sword already. Oh, my Mars!
The poets that first feign'd a god of war,
Sure prophesied of thee.

_Pier._ Friend, was not Brutus
(I mean that Brutus, who in open senate
Stabb'd the first Caesar that usurp'd the world),
A gallant man?

_Ren._ Yes, and Catiline too;
Though story wrong his fame: for he conspir'd
To prop the reeling glory of his country:
His cause was good.

_Bed._ And ours as much above it,
As, Renault, thou'rt superior to Cethegus,
Or Pierre to Cassius.

_Pier._ Then to what we aim at.
When do we start? or must we talk for ever?

_Bed._ No, Pierre, the deed's near birth; fate seems to have set
The business up, and given it to our care;
I hope there's not a heart or hand amongst us,
But is firm and ready.

_All._ All.
We'll die with Bedamar.

_Bed._ O men
Matchless! as will your glory be hereafter:
The game is for a matchless prize, if won;
If lost, disgraceful ruin.

_Pier._ Ten thousand men are armed at your nod,
Commanded all by leaders fit to guide
A battle for the freedom of the world:
This wretched state has starv'd them in its service;
And, by your bounty quicken'd, they're resolved
To serve your glory, and revenge their own:
They've all their different quarters in this city,
Watch for th' alarm, and grumble 'tis so tardy.

_Bed._ I doubt not, friend, but thy unwearied diligence
Has still kept waking, and it shall have ease;
After this night it is resolv'd we meet
No more, till Venice owns us for her lords.

_Pier._ How lovelily the Adriatic whore,
Dress'd in her flames, will shine! Devouring flames
Such as shall burn her to the watery bottom,
And hiss in her foundation.

_Bed._ Now if any
Amongst us, that owns this glorious cause,
Have friends or interest he'd wish to sa