BIA. Sing, Fidelio!

FID. I have no thorn
To lean my breast on. I've been happy all day,
And happiness ever made a crow of me.

BEA. Sing, none the less,--unless you have a cold,
Which is a singer's only rock of refuge.
You have no cold, or you would not be happy.
So sing.

FID. [Singing.] "Oh, little rose-tree, bloom!
Summer is nearly over.
The dahlias bleed and the phlox is seed,
Nothing's left of the clover,
And the path of the poppy no one knows,--
I would blossom if I were a rose!

Summer for all your guile
Will brown in a week to autumn,
And launched leaves throw a shadow below
Over the brook's clear bottom,
And the chariest bud the year can boast
Be brought to bloom by the chastening frost!
Oh, little rose-tree, bloom!"

[As he finishes the song Fidelio goes out, softly strumming
the last chords. Bianca and Beatrice did sit quite
still for a moment.]