(A Messenger enters, bearing a letter.)
Mess. Pardon, my good lord!
But this demands——
Eri. What means thy breathless haste?
And that ill-boding mien?—Away! such looks
Befit not hours like these.
Mes. The Lord De Couci
Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with tidings
Of life and death.
Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a time for ought
But revelry?—My lord, these dull intrusions
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!
Eri. (to the Messenger) Hence! tell the Lord De Couci we will talk
Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger.
Let there be
Around me none but joyous looks to-day,
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!
(A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound
of music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c.
Eri. What forms are these?—What means this antic triumph?
Vit. 'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not
Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody,
To which the glad heart bounds.—Breathe ye some strain
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!
