DON TOMMASO.
Meagre cheer, Bat tidings that break through our slow suspense, Like the first thunder-clap in sultry air. Don John sets sail from Sicily, to wed A Princess chosen by the King. Maria —
ANNICOA.
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 shrmk 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 Uncomf orted, 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
