Loredano.
You love this syren?
Contarini.
Nay—to shrines so fair,
Kneeling, we offer passionate vows, but dream not
Of single worship. Would the sun in heaven,
That fills the world with glory, treasure up
His gathered beams for one poor mortal’s gaze?
Or if he might, would not the dazzling tide
O’erwhelm his votary? Fiorilla’s charms