How all is changed since that unhappy eve! Ceres forever weeps, seeking her child, And in her rage has struck the land with blight; Trinacria mourns with her;—its fertile fields Are dry and barren, and all little brooks Struggling scarce creep within their altered banks; The flowers that erst were wont with bended heads, To gaze within the clear and glassy wave, Have died, unwatered by the failing stream.— And yet their hue but mocks the deeper grief Which is the fountain of these bitter tears. But who is this, that with such eager looks Hastens this way?— (EUNOE: ’Tis fairest Arethuse, A stranger naiad, yet you know her well.) My eyes were blind with tears. Enter Arethusa. Dear Arethuse, Methinks I read glad tidings in your eyes, Your smiles are the swift messengers that bear A tale of coming joy, which we, alas! Can answer but with tears, unless you bring To our grief solace, Hope to our Despair. Have you found Proserpine? or know you where The loved nymph wanders, hidden from our search?

Ino Monologue from Proserpine and Midas

Rehearse Ino's monologue