The Falcon

For my Lord it is a celebration,
When he prepares it for the hunt;
He uncovers it, it leaves, it is a flash:
Is it in the middle of the air,
Its vast flight dominates the plain,
It soars, it soars, and its eye wanders
Even into the dark thickets.
Does it perceive a partridge,
It swoops down, and the animal is caught.

The beautiful bird! nothing surpasses
Its strength and its lightness:
Before its beak all that passes,
Is forced to yield to its speed.

As true as my name is Guillaume,
As true as I tell you this,
The King himself with all his kingdom
Would not pay for that bird.

Well, Eléonore, am I not miserable enough?

Madame, that should not sadden you.

It seems that what I said is distressing to Madame.

No, Guillaume, no; it is charming.
(Here Clitie walks away into the back of the theater, lost in thought.)

So you are alone here? And who is this woman who did not want to let us enter?

Oh, that is the old woman.

Is she not your mother?

Goodness, my mother; she is dead.

She seems quite surly.