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?

Daria. 
                   I say so
For good cause:  in books profane
Thou unceasingly delightest,
Verse thou readest, verse thou writest,
Of their very vanity vain. 
And if thou wouldst have me prove
What I say to thy proceeding,
Tell me, what ’s this book thou ’rt reading?

Cynthia. 
’T is The Remedy of Love. 
Whence thou mayst perceive how weak
Is thy inference, thy deduction
From my studious self-instruction;
Since the patient who doth seek
Remedies to cure his pain
Shows by this he would grow better;—­
For the slave who breaks his fetter
Cannot surely love his chain.