Cheer my heart and glad my eyes.
My brain ascend on fancy's wing,
'Noint me, wine, a jovial king.
While I live, I'll lave my clay,
When I'm dead and gone away,
Let my thirsty subjects say,
A month he reign'd, but that was May.
[Thunder.]
Don Cæsar. Hark, how distinct we hear the thunder through this vast body of earth and rock.—Rapino, is Calvette above, upon his post?
Rap. Yes.