(Led by The Marquis in Pale Blue.)
Zephyr rises at the dawn
From the budding pillows of the roses.
Lo, he will cool his hot desire
In the silvery dew,
Since he must console himself
That his dream still fans the flame,
And that Luna's icy kiss
Does but touch his parched mouth.
And Aurora's violet passion
Looks on him with floods of tears.
Ah! What matters Luna's favour?--
She knows not how to kiss.
The Queen (_yawning_).
The pretty verses which you have just sung to sweeten this long posing
for me, grieve me slightly. Yet--aside from that--accept my thanks.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Oh, your Majesty!
The Queen.
Are you a poet, Marquis?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Oh, your Majesty, up to this time I have not been; but who should not
speak in verse where this magic enthrals us, where our hearts are
habitually broken, and Cupid himself bears the royal crown?
(Cupid _begins to cry_).
First Maid of Honour.
What is the matter with him?
Second Maid of Honour.
Ah, the sweet child!
First Maid of Honour.
Be good! Nice and good! Here is a sweetmeat!
Cupid.