NO. 2. SARAGOSSA.
PITA, my paragon, bright star of Arragon;
Listen, dear, listen; your Cristobal sings.
From my cot that lies buried a short way
from Lerida
Love and a diligence lent me their wings.
Swift as a falcon I flew to thy balcony.
(Is it bronchitis? I can't sing a bar.)
Greet not with merriment Love's first experi-
ment;
Listen, Pépita! I 've brought my catarrh.
Manuel the matador may, like a flat, adore
Donna Dolores. I pity his choice,
For they say that her governor lets neither lover nor
Any one else hear the sound of her voice.
Brother Bartolomé (stoutish Apollo) may
Sigh for Sabina—you 'll pardon this cough?—
And Isabel's votary, Nunez the notary,
Vainly—(.That sneeze again? Loved one, I'm off!)