My daughter,

Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love

And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult

Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City

Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,

And with all hospitable care and honour,

Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them

A fitting welcome.

Gycia.

Pardon me, my father,

That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

[Going.

Lama. Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

Gycia. Ay, thee, dear father.

Lama.

Nay, I know it well.

But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?

Gycia. None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene

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