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THE BPAGNOLETTO.
ANNICCA.
A word would stir less deeply than you dread.
DON TOMMASO.
Ah, there you err ; he knows no middle term.
At once he would accept as fact the worst
Of your imaginings ; his rage would smite
All near him, and rebound upon himself;
For, as I learn, Don John brings royal orders
For the Queen’s gallery; he would dismiss
The Prince as roughly as a begging artist.
Make no such breach just now betwixt the court
And our own kindred.
ANNICCA.
Be it so, Tommaso.
I will do naught in haste.
DON TOMMASO.
Watch thou and wait.
A slight reproof might now suffice the child,
Tame as a bird unto a gentle voice.
ANNICCA.
My mind misgives me ; yet will I find patience.
