Trou. Let us by a song conceal our purposes.
RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.[215]
Cas. Hist! hist! nor let the airs that blow
From Night's cold lungs, our purpose know!
Pudd. Let Silence, mother of the dumb,
Beef. Press on each lip her palsied thumb!
Wait. Let privacy, allied to sin,
That loves to haunt the tranquil inn—
Gren.} And Conscience start, when she shall view,
Trou. } The mighty deed we mean to do!