Ah! how tenderly thou chantest! 
Thou with thy artistic skill,
Thou with thy clear understanding. 
But what say I?  I speak falsely,
For you both are sphinxes rather,
Who with flattering words seduce me
But to ruin me hereafter:—­
Leave me; go:  I cannot listen
To your wiles.

Nisida. 
                My lord, oh! hearken
To my song once more.

Cynthia. 
                       Wait! stay!

Nisida. 
Why thus treat with so much harshness
Those who mourn thy deep dejection?

Escarpin. 
Oh! how soon they ’d have an answer
If they asked of me these questions. 
I know how to treat such tattle: 
Leave them, sir, to me.

Chrysanthus. 
                         My senses
’Gainst their lures I must keep guarded: 
They are crocodiles, but feigning
Human speech, so but to drag me
To my ruin, my destruction.

Nisida. 
Since my voice will still attract thee,
’T is of little use to fly me.

Cynthia. 
Though thou dost thy best to guard thee,
While I gloss the words she singeth
To my genius thou must hearken.

Chrysanthus (aside.)
God whom I adore! since I
Help myself, Thy help, oh! grant me!

Nisida. 
“Ah! the joy” . . . . (she becomes confused. 
                      But what is this? 
Icy torpor coldly fastens
On my hands; the lute drops from me,
And my very breath departeth.

Cynthia. 
Since she cannot sing; then listen
To this subtle play of fancy: 
“Love, if thou ’rt my god” . . . . (she becomes confused. 
                                   But how,
What can have my mind so darkened
What my memory so confuses,
What my voice can so embarrass?

Nisida. 
I am turned to frost and fire,
I am changed to living marble.

Cynthia. 
Frozen over is my breast,
And my heart is cleft and hardened.

Chrysanthus. 
Thus to lose your wits, ye two,
What can have so strangely happened?

Escarpin. 
Being poets and musicians,
Quite accounts, sir, for their absence.

Nisida. 
Heavens! beneath the noontide sun
To be left in total darkness!

Cynthia. 
In an instant, O ye heavens! 
O’er your vault can thick clouds gather?

Nisida. 
’Neath the contact of my feet
Earth doth tremble, and I stagger.

Cynthia. 
Mountains upon mountains seem
On my shoulders to be balanced.

Escarpin. 
So it always is with those
Who make verses, or who chant them.

Chrysanthus. 
Of the one God whom I worship
These are miracles, are marvels.

(Enter Daria.)

Daria. 
Here, Chrysanthus, I have come . . .