A cold reception from thy relatives.
Oh, there's a germ in every human breast,
That buds anew when absent friends return.
Thou 'lt bring with thee blissful remembrances
Of times long past, of love, and hope, and joy;
And though a scorching sun, a blighting wind,
May have converted to an arid sand
The soil where flow'rets sprang, they' ll bloom again,
A second spring of tender, calm delights.
Rosmunda.
What, if whilst I have wander'd, sunk in grief,
Struggling with poverty, and wrinkled cares
Feeding upon my bloom, wasting my limbs
With premature decay, my friends have soared
To fortune's topmost height; will they embrace
The squalid wretch that sues to them for bread,
Brings them no guerdon, save a broken heart,
Shrined in a tenement of withered clay?
Giovanni.
Thou wilt be dearer for thy sufferings;
They 'll pour their golden treasures at thy feet,
