There is no truth
In staying here, in all this haggard country,
With all its miles on miles of withering turf.
Must I be sovereign of this sultry air,
This land that gapes on me? And there are chasms,
Great fissures that affright.... Of the miasma too
My babe may die. Are there no posts from Rome?
CRISTOFERO.
None, Excellency—yet I would convey
News of your health, of the young Prince’s health,
If it should please you, to his Holiness.
LUCREZIA.
Nay, we must not be forward. Posts will come
To Nepi, if at Nepi I abide....
Enter Donna Hieronyma Borgia with little Don Rodrigo. Donna Lucrezia runs to her.
Give me the child.
HIERONYMA.
Fie, he will set you weeping!