Nin. Too true, my queen!
Khosrove is maimed beyond all hope of life,
And thou must make thy husband heir to love
That was thy brother’s.
Sem. Oh!
Nin. Thy grief is mine.
Sem. I will not weep, though I could shed such streams
As when the clouds from riven breast pour down
Their torrent agonies!... How strange, my lord,
The guards should venture so without your warrant!
Nin. I ’ve had their heads for it!
Sem. (Shocked) Their heads!... Why, this
’Tis to be royal! Ah!
Nin. Put by these thoughts,
Semiramis. No theme to-day but love!
Sem. Love, sir?
Nin. Ay, that! Thou lov’st me, dost thou not?
Sem. Thou art great Ninus!