An eastward room in the Palace.
Enter Albovine.
ALBOVINE.
This sun—no sun like ours—burns out my soul.
I would, when June takes hold on us like fire,
The wind could waft and whirl us northward: here
The splendour and the sweetness of the world
Eat out all joy of life or manhood. Earth
Is here too hard on heaven—the Italian air
Too bright to breathe, as fire, its next of kin,
Too keen to handle. God, whoe’er God be,
Keep us from withering as the lords of Rome—
Slackening and sickening toward the imperious end
That wiped them out of empire! Yea, he shall.
Enter Hildegard.
HILDEGARD.
The queen would wait upon your majesty.
ALBOVINE.
Bid her come in. And tell her ere she come
I wait upon her will.
[Exit Hildegard.]