Enter Zoya, supported by a Gentleman Usher, followed by Herod and Nymphadoro, with much state; soft music playing.
Zuc. Death o’ man! is she delivered?
Herc. Delivered! Yes, O my Don, delivered! Yes, Donna Zoya,—the grace of society,—the music of sweetly agreeing perfection,—more clearly chaste than ice or frozen rain,—that glory of her sex,—that wonder of wit,—that beauty more fresh’d than any cool and trembling wind,—that now only wish of a man,—is delivered!—is delivered! 432
Zuc. How?
Herc. From Don Zuccone, that dry scaliness,—that sarpego,—that barren drouth, and shame of all humanity!
Zoy. What fellow’s that?
Nym. Don Zuccone, your sometime husband.
Enter Philocalia.
Zoy. Alas! poor creature.
Phil. The princess prays your company.