—Coldly!—nay, rather with triumphant gaze,
Upon his murder! Desolate as I am,
Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride,
O my lost Conradin! there should be still
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o’erawe
The hearts of thine assassins.
Eri. Haughty dame!
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed,
Know danger is around thee: thou hast foes
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone