We commune now—a friend’s, a monarch’s gift,
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira,
Should yield him still a welcome.
Sylv. Fare thee well!
I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words
Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance
Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain.
I mock thy wiles to scorn.
Seb. Ha! ha! The snake
Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning,