Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City
Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,
And with all hospitable care and honour,
Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them
A fitting welcome.
Gycia.
Pardon me, my father,
That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.
[Going.
Lama. Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?