A tender young maid in the greatest distress.
Hard is my lot, beaux I have none;
On this piazza I’m sitting alone.
Jul. Ah, me! Ah, me! Ah, me! Oh, my!
I cannot sleep, nor tell the reason why.
’Tis now the very witching hour of night,
Which is to say, it would be if ’twas light.
Why, there’s the moon, quite dear to me, I’m sure:
I never felt she was so near before.
O beauteous queen! descend from thy high sphere,