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No. 2: Recitative & Song

"Still brooding on their mad infatuation...
I cannot tell what this love may be"

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Patience appears on an eminence.
She looks down with pity on the despondent Maidens.

Patience.
Still brooding on their mad infatuation! I thank thee, Love, thou comest not to me Far happier I, free from thy ministration, Than dukes or duchesses who love can be!
Saphir. (looking up)
'Tis Patience - happy girl! Loved by a poet!
Patience.
Your pardon, ladies. I intrude upon you! (going)
Angela.
Nay, pretty child, come hither. Is it true that you have never loved?
Patience.
Most true indeed.
Sopranos.
Most marvellous!
Altos.
And most deplorable!

Patience.

I cannot tell what this love may be That cometh to all but not to me. It cannot be kind as they'd imply, Or why do these ladies sigh? It cannot be joy and rapture deep, Or why do these gentle ladies weep? It cannot be blissful as 'tis said, Or why are their eyes so wondrous red? Though ev'rywhere true love I see A-coming to all, but not to me, I cannot tell what this love may be! For I am blithe and I am gay, While they sit sighing night and day.

Patience.

If love is a thorn, they show no wit Who foolishly hug and foster it. If love is a weed, how simple they Who gather it, day by day! If love is a nettle that makes you smart, Then why do you wear it next your heart? And if it be none of these, say I, Ah, why do you sit and sob and sigh? Though ev'rywhere true love I see A-coming to all, but not to me, I cannot tell what this love may be! For I am blithe and I am gay, While they sit sighing night and day.

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