But the measure of time will not be changed.
O mystery of the night! And you, O season of the nudity of love when for leaves there are only blossoms on the trees!
What do you say, O bird? But you are only a voice and not a message.
The Princess: Do you think we shall have tidings soon?
Cébès: With the first hour he will be here,
Bringing the news as a laborer brings his tools.
If only I do not die before he comes!
The Princess: Do not say such a thing!
Cébès: Such a thing? Do you think I do not know what it means? Go and listen to the rabble who rave in the shadows of the room.
I lie here, and I die before my time through the sin of my parents. The sweat runs down my face.