CYNTHIA (to herself). Whilst each alley here discloses Youthful nymphs, who as they pass To Diana's shrine, the grass Turn to beds of fragrant roses,-- Where the interlac`ed bars Of these woods their beauty dowers Seem a verdant sky of flowers-- Seem an azure field of stars. I shall here recline and read (While they wander through the grove) Ovid's 'Remedy of Love.' NISIDA (to Chloris). Hear the words and air. CHLORIS. Proceed. NISIDA (singing). O nightingale, whose sweet exulting strain Tells of thy triumphs to the listening grove, Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain. But no; but no; for if thou sing'st of love, Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain. CYNTHIA (advancing). What a charming air! To me What an honour! From this day I may well be vain, as they May without presumption be, Who, despite their numerous slips, Find their words can please the ear, Who their rugged verses hear Turn to music on thy lips. NISIDA. 'T is thine own genius, not my skill, That produces this effect; For, without it, I suspect, Would my voice sound harsh and shrill, And my lute's strings should be broken With a just and wholesome rigour, For presuming to disfigure What thy words so well have spoken. Whither wert thou wending here? CYNTHIA. Through the quiet wood proceeding, I the poet's book was reading, When there fell upon my ear, Soft and sweet, thy voice: its power, Gentle lodestone of my feet, Brought me to this green retreat-- Led me to this lonely bower: But what wonder, when to listen To thy sweetly warbled words Ceased the music of the birds-- Of the founts that glide and glisten? May I hope that, since I came Thus so opportunely near, I the gloss may also hear? NISIDA. I will sing it, though with shame. (Sings) Sweet nightingale, that from some echoing grot Singest the rapture of thy love aloud, Singest with voice so joyous and so proud, All unforgetting thou mayst be forgot, Full of thyself and of thy happy lot! Ah! when thou trillest that triumphant strain To all the listening lyrists of the grove, Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain! But no; but no; for if thou sing'st of love. Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain! Enter DARIA. DARIA. Ah! my Nisida, forbear, Ah! those words forbear to sing, Which on zephyr's wanton wing Thou shouldst waft not on the air. All is wrong, how sweet it be, That the vestal's thoughts reprove: What is jealousy? what is love? That they should be sung by thee? Think this wood is consecrated To Diana's service solely, Not to Venus: it is holy. Why then wouldst thou desecrate it With thy songs? Does 't not amaze Thee thyself--this strangest thing-- In Diana's grove to sing Hymns of love to Cupid's praise? But I need not wonder, no, That thou 'rt so amused, since I Here see Cynthia with thee. CYNTHIA. Why Dost thou say so?