She’s in Madrid. O pardon me, my friend,
If I so long have kept this secret from thee;
But silence is the charm that guards such treasures,
And if a word be spoken ere the time,
They sink again, they were not meant for us.
Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art in love.
How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy?
Write her a song, beginning with an Ave;
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,
Ave! cujus calcem clarè