Ann. I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart;
This cherish'd woe, this lov'd despair,
My lot for ever be,
So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee!
And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek,
When my poor wasted trembling breath
My life's last hope would speak;
I shall not raise my eyes to Heav'n,
Nor mercy ask for me,
My soul despairs to be forgiv'n,
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.
Stra. [Surprised and moved.] Oh! I have heard that air before, but 'twas with other words. Francis, share our supper with your friends—I need none.
[Enters the Lodge.
Fra. So I feared. Well, my pretty favourites, here are refreshments. So, disturbed again. Now will this gentleman call for more music, and make my master mad. Return when you observe this man is gone.—[Exeunt Annette and Claudine.—Francis sits and eats.]—I was in hopes, that I might at least eat my supper peaceably in the open air; but they follow at our heels like blood-hounds.
Enter Baron.
Bar. My good friend, I must speak to your master.
Fra. Can't serve you.
Bar. Why not?
Fra. It's forbidden.