Through the still garden, through the giddy street,
And up the solitary mountain-side,
Leads me with sleep-involuntary feet?—
Cipr. ’Tis she, as yet though clouded!—oh divine
Justina!—
The Figure. Cipriano!—
Cipr. At last here,
In such a chamber where ev’n Phœbus fails
To pierce, and baffled breezes tell no tales,
At last, to crown the labour of a year