They'll pine for grief and die. Oh sweet, come, come.
Enter Odora in the Dress of a Woodnymph.
Transcendant vision! Even now I thought of thee,
My mind, o'erheated, called—and thou art here.
What blissful fate hath brought thee? Dost thou roam
The scented hills at morn, to gather flowers;
To gaze into the fountain's glassy mirror,
Or list the sweet birds sigh on every bough,
Thou art a woodnymph, speaks thy fair attire.
Sweet fancy of a sweeter maidenhood,