With festal garlands, and to bid the song
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No—nor yet
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine,
Where death, not love, awaits him!
Vit. Can my soul
Dissemble thus?
Pro. We have no other means
Of winning our great birthright back from those
Who have usurp'd it, than so lulling them
Into vain confidence, that they may deem
All wrongs forgot; and this may best be done
By what I ask of thee.
Mon. Then will we mix
With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feast
The harvest of the grave.
Vit. A bridal day!
—Must it be so?—Then, chiefs of Sicily,
I bid you to my nuptials! but be there
With your bright swords unsheath'd, for thus alone
My guests should be adorn'd.
Pro. And let thy banquet
Be soon announced, for there are noble men
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase
Reprieve with other blood.
Vit. Be it then the day
Preceding that appointed for their doom.
Guido. My brother, thou shalt live!—Oppression boasts
No gift of prophecy!—It but remains
To name our signal, chiefs!
