Justina monologue — The Wonder-Working Magician

[more composed] 'Tis that enamoured nightingale Who thus gives me the reply:-- To his partner in the vale Listening on a bough hard by Warbling thus his tuneful wail. Cease, sweet nightingale, nor show By thy softly witching strain Trilling forth thy bliss and woe, How a man might feel love's pain, When a bird can feel his so. No: it was that wanton vine That in fond pursuit has sought The tall tree it doth entwine, Till the green weight it hath brought Makes the noble trunk decline. Green entwining boughs that hold What you love in your embrace, Make my fancy not too bold:-- Ah, if boughs thus interlace, How would clasping arms infold!-- And if not the vine, 'twill be That bright sunflower which we see Turning with its tearful eyes To its sun-god in the skies, Whatsoe'er his movements be. Flower thy watch no longer keep, Drooping leaflets fold in sleep, For the fond thought reappears, Ah, if leaves can shed such tears, What are those that eyes can weep! Cease then, lyrist of the grove, Leafy vine, unclasp thy arms, Fickle flower, no longer move, And declare, these poisoned charms That you use, what yields?