When through the Piazzetta
Night breathes her cool air,
Then, dearest Ninetta,
I ’ll come to thee there.
Beneath thy mask shrouded, 5
I ’ll know thee afar,
As Love knows, though clouded,
His own Evening Star.
In garb, then, resembling
Some gay gondolier,
I ’ll whisper thee, trembling,
“Our bark, love, is near:
Now, now, while there hover
Those clouds o’er the moon,
’T will waft thee safe over
Yon silent Lagoon.”