AIR VIII.—QUINTETTO.
D. Scipio.
Signor! [To Pedrillo.]
Your wits must be keener,
Our prudence to elude,
Your fine plot,
Tho' so pat,
Will do you little good.
Ped.
My fine plot!
I'm a sot,
If I know what
These gentlefolks are at.
Fer.
Past the perils of the night,
Tempests, darkness, rude alarms;
Phœbus rises clear and bright,
In the lustre of your charms.
Lor.
O, charming, I declare,
So polite a cavalier!
He understands the duty
And homage due to beauty.
D. Scipio.
Bravo! O bravissimo!
Lor.
Caro! O carissimo!
How sweet his honey words,
How noble is his mien!
D. Scipio.
Fine feathers make fine birds,
The footman's to be seen.
But both deserve a basting!
Ped.
Since morning I've been fasting.
D. Scipio.
Yet I could laugh for anger.
Ped.
Oh, I could cry for hunger.
D. Scipio.
I could laugh.
Ped.
I could cry.
D. Scipio.
I could quaff.
Ped.
So could I.
D. Scipio.
Ha! ha! ha! I'm in a fit.
Ped.
Oh, I could pick a little bit.
D. Scipio.
Ha! ha! ha!
Ped.
Oh! oh! oh!
Lor.
A very pleasant party!
D. Fer.
A whimsical reception!
D. Scipio.
A whimsical deception!
But master and man, accept a welcome hearty.
D. Fer.Ped.}
Accept our thanks sincere, for such a welcome hearty.