SCARAMOUCHE waves a threatening hand
To Pulcinella, and they stand,
     Two shadows, black against the moon.

The old doctor of Bologna pries
For simples with impassive eyes,
     And mutters o’er a magic rune.

The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed,
Glides slyly ’neath the trees, in quest
     Of her bold pirate lover’s sail;

Her pirate from the Spanish main,
Whose passion thrills her in the pain
     Of the loud languorous nightingale.