I.

Gently whisper to her of love, dear flow'r; Tell her that I adore her, And for me, oh, implore her, For my heart feels alone for her love's pow'r.

Say in sighing I languish, That for her, in my anguish, Beats alone, dearest flow'r, My aching heart. (Plucks flowers.) Alas! they are wither'd! (Throws them away.) Can the accursed wizard's words be true?

(Plucks another flower, which, on touching his hand, immediately withers.)

"Thou shalt ne'er touch flower again But it shall wither!" I'll bathe my hand in holy water!

(Approaches the pavilion, and dips his fingers in a little font suspended to the wall.)

When day declines, Marguerite hither Comes to pray, so we'll try again.

(Plucks more flowers.) Are they wither'd? No! Satan, thou art conquer'd!