Though my love you ne'er can shake it,
'Tis more deeply rooted than yon oak that rears its head on high;
Though the stem of hope is shivered,
And each branch of pleasure withered,
Yet it clings unto the earth still firm,—so, to my love, will I."
"Will you promise ne'er to tease me,
And do all you can to please me,
If I take you for the better, though I know 'twill be for worse?
Are you sure you love me truly?
Well, I cannot think that you lie,