_Scene; a beautiful plain, shadowed on one side by an
overhanging rock, on the other a chesnut wood. Etna
at a distance._

_Enter Ceres, Proserpine, Ino and Eunoe._

_Pros._ Dear Mother, leave me not! I love to rest
Under the shadow of that hanging cave
And listen to your tales. Your Proserpine
Entreats you stay; sit on this shady bank,
And as I twine a wreathe tell once again
The combat of the Titans and the Gods;
Or how the Python fell beneath the dart
Of dread Apollo; or of Daphne's change,--
That coyest Grecian maid, whose pointed leaves
Now shade her lover's brow. And I the while
Gathering the starry flowers of this fair plain
Will weave a chaplet, Mother, for thy hair.
But without thee, the plain I think is vacant,
Its [Footnote: There is an apostrophe _on_ the s.]
blossoms fade,--its tall fresh grasses droop,
Nodding their heads like dull things half asleep;--
Go not, dear Mother, from your Proserpine.

_Cer._ My lovely child, it is high Jove's command:-- [2]
The golden self-moved seats surround his throne,
The nectar is poured out by Ganymede,
And the ambrosia fills the golden baskets;
They drink, for Bacchus is already there,