Ruin'd ere the set of sun?
Tell us, how shall this be done?
The Trojan Prince, you know, is bound
by fate to seek Italian ground;
The Queen and he are now in chase.
Hark! The cry comes on apace.
But, when they're done, my trusty Elf
In form of Mercury himself
As sent from Jove, shall chide his stay,
and charge him sail tonight with all his fleet away.
Ha ha ... ha ha ... ho ho!
But, ere we this perform,
well conjure for a storm
To mar their hunting sport,
And drive 'em back to Court.
CHORUS and ECHO
In our deep vaulted cell the charm well prepare,
too dreadful a practice for this open air.
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