The Duenna

SONG.-Don Ant. Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain 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.