Ah happy bird, whom the wind and the rain,
And snare of the fowler, beset but in vain;
Oh, had I thy wing,
Leaving others to sing,
How soon would I be with my lover again!
Laz. (aloud within). Pray God, poor man, if thou be innocent
Of any ill intention in thy chirping,
The blade I draw upon thee turn to wood!
A miracle! A miracle! (Rushing in.)
Prince. How now?