But turn to Thee, away from time and tears,
A melting snowflake in Thy mercy’s sea.
The Prefect. Disperse.
[The trumpets sound.
A Voice. Our novel damsel, fallen dumb,
On the good public flint shall soon strike fire;
And we may trap that masking man-at-arms,
Before a lizard gets his inch of sun.
Ho, ho! Away: lead on!
The Crowd. Huzza! huzza!