So gently speak thy master's pain?
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,
That, though my sleeping love shall know
Who sings--who sighs below,
Her rosy slumbers shall not fly?
Thus, may some vision whisper more
Than ever I dare speak before.

_I. Mas_. Antonio, your mistress will never wake, while you sing so
dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a sad melody.

_Don Ant_. I do not wish to disturb her rest.

_I. Mas_. The reason is, because you know she does not regard you
enough to appear, if you awaked her.

_Don Ant_. Nay, then, I'll convince you. [_Sings_.]

The breath of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair;
For till the dawn of love is there,
I feel no day, I own no light.

DONNA LOUISA--_replies from a window_.

Waking, I heard thy numbers chide,
Waking, the dawn did bless my sight;
'Tis Phoebus sure that woos, I cried,
Who speaks in song, who moves in light.