(Recitative)
I rage, I rage, I melt, I burn!
The feeble god has stabbed me to the heart
Thou trusty pine, prop of my god-like steps
I lay thee by!
Bring me a hundred reeds of decent growth
To make a pipe for my capacious mouth;
In soft enchanting accents
Let me breathe sweet Galatea's beauty, and my love

(Aria)
O ruddier than the cherry
O sweeter than the berry
O nymph more bright than moonshine night
Like kidlings blithe and merry!

Ripe as the mеlting cluster
No lily has such lustre;
Yet hard to tamе as raging flame
And fierce as storms that bluster!