Re-enter Don Cæsar.

Cavatina—don Cæsar.
There is a flower that bloometh,
When autumn leaves are shed.
With the silent moon it weepeth,
The spring and summer fled.
The early frost of winter
Scarce one tint hath overcast,
Oh, pluck it ere it wither,
'Tis the memory of the past,
It wafted perfume o'er us,
Of sweet, though sad regret;
For the true friends gone before us,
Whom none would e'er forget.
Let no heart brave its power,
By guilty thoughts o'ereast;
For then a poison flower,
Is—the memory of the past.