Vit. ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not
Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody,
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!
One of the Masquers sings.
The festal eve, o’er earth and sky,
In her sunset robe looks bright,
And the purple hills of Sicily