BOX TOMMASO.
Meagre cheer,
But tidings that break through our slow sus pense,
Like the first thunder-clap in sultry air.
Don John sets sail from Sicily, to wed
A Princess chosen by the King. Maria-
ANNICCA.
Talk not of her I know her not ; her name
Will sear thy tongue. Think st thou, in truth, this news
Will draw my father from his hiding-place?
No teach me not to hope, Within my heart
A sure voice tells me he is dead. Not his
The spirit to drag out a shameful life,
To shrink from honest eyes, to sink his brow
Unto the dust, here where he wore his crown.
Thou knowest him. Have I not cause to mourn
Uncomforted, that he, the first of fathers,
Self-murdered nay, child-murdered Oh, Tommaso,
I would fare barefoot to the ends of the earth
To look again upon his living face,
See in his eyes the light of love restored—
Not blasting me with lightnings as before—
To kneel to him, to solace him, to win
