[Pg 40]

And shuns the noise and tumult of the croud.

How tedious are the hours which bring him

To my fond, panting heart! for oh! to those

Who live in expectation of the bliss,

Time slowly creeps, and ev'ry tardy minute

Seems mocking of their wishes. Say, Cleone,

For you beheld the triumph, 'midst his pomp,

Did he not seem to curse the empty show,

The pageant greatness, enemy to love,

Which held him from Evanthe? haste, to tell me,

And feed my gready ear with the fond tale—

Yet, hold—for I shall weary you with questions,

And ne'er be satisfied—Beware, Cleone,

And guard your heart from Love's delusive sweets.

Cleone.

Cleone.

Is Love an ill, that thus you caution me

To shun his pow'r?

Evanthe.

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