Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove,
By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love.
[_Sleeps._]

[_There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a bright
radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the face of Pierrot.
Presently a Moon Maiden steps out of the temple; she descends and stands
over the sleeper._]

THE LADY
Who is this mortal
Who ventures to-night
To woo an immortal?
Cold, cold the moon's light
For sleep at this portal,
Bold lover of night.

Fair is the mortal
In soft, silken white,
Who seeks an immortal.
Ah, lover of night,
Be warned at the portal,
And save thee in flight!

[_She stoops over him: Pierrot stirs in his sleep._]

PIERROT[_Murmuring._]
Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore:
"_He loves to-night who never loved before_."