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.) G.o.d 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 G.o.d" . . . . (she becomes confused.

But how, What can have my mind so darkened What my memory so confuses, What my voice can so embarra.s.s?

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 G.o.d whom I worship These are miracles, are marvels.

(Enter Daria.)

DARIA.

Here, Chrysanthus, I have come . . .

NISIDA.

Stay, Daria.

CYNTHIA.

Stay, 't is rashness Here to come, for, full of wonders, Full of terrors is this garden.

ESCARPIN.

Do not enter: awful omens Threat'ning death await thy advent.

NISIDA.

By my miseries admonished . . . .

CYNTHIA.

By my strange misfortune startled . . .

NISIDA.

Flying from myself, I leave This green sphere, dismayed, distracted.

CYNTHIA.

Without soul or life I fly, Overwhelmed by this enchantment.

NISIDA.

Oh! how dreadful!

CYNTHIA.

Oh! how awful!

NISIDA.