“A fool, yet none the less a brother—this one. And mind, young rustic. A word in your ear. Silence, silence! Tis dangerous to sell love-potions now-a-days. I don’t speak for myself, young rustic, for I’m the great Dulcamara, famed in Venice and Ferrara; but for your sake, young rustic—ah! ah! all the women in the place will be dying for you. To-morrow, mind. Good bye young rustic, good bye.”
And the worthy doctor vanished through the doorway of the village inn.
“Faith,” said the lover to himself, no longer in a disconsolate tone, “a good thing is a good thing to-day as well as to-morrow. And ’tis fair weather, for am I not sitting down here with my elixir of love? And the bright sky above me. Good! I will!” Pop! ’tis the cork. “Ah, ah! good! another sip. Good!—another.”
“La, la, la, la, la, ra, ra.”
“Good! Good! yet another; and another sip.”
“La, la, la, la, la, ra, ree.”
“Can I believe my eyes; why ’tis Nemorino singing. Actually Nemorino singing. Ah, ah!”
“’Tis she! I shall go to her! No; why should I go to her? Let her come to me. La, la, la. La, la, la. For to-morrow; yes to-morrow. They’ll be sighing at my feet!”
“He doesn’t even look at me! ah, ah!” Rather a louder “ah, ah!” than the first.
“La, la, la, re, ra, ra, ra. Aie, aie, aie, eie, ah!”