Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held
In token and memorial of the dead.
Say, is it meet that, lingering thus on earth,
But to behold one great atonement made,
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts,
A tyrant's will should force me to profane
Heaven's altar with unhallow'd vows—and live
Stung by the keen, unutterable scorn
Of my own bosom, live—another's bride?
Sici. Never, oh never!—fear not, noble lady!
Worthy of Conradin!
Vit. Yet hear me still.
His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears
With his insulting eye of cold derision,
And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works,
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes.
—Say, is this meet?
Guido. We deem'd these nuptials, lady,
Thy willing choice; but 'tis a joy to find
Thou art noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs
This shall not be.
Pro. Vittoria, thou art come
To ask our aid, but we have need of thine.
Know, the completion of our high designs
Requires—a festival; and it must be
Thy bridal!
Vit. Procida!
Pro. Nay, start not thus.
'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair
