A cither with diversely sounding strings,
One for life’s joy, a treble loud and clear,
And one deep note that quivers as it sings.
[To individuals among the Students.
You have the palette?—You the note-book? Good,
Swarm then, my bees, into the leafy wood,
Till at night-fall with pollen-laden thigh,
Home to our mighty mother-queen we fly!
[Turning to the company, while the Students depart and the Chorus of the First Act is faintly heard outside.
Forgive me my offences great and small,