Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
But eccoci! with our barchetta,
Here at the Sant’ Elisabetta.
Di. Vineyards and maize, that’s pleasant for sore eyes.
Sp. And on the island’s other side,
The place where Murray’s faithful Guide
Informs us Byron used to ride.
Di. The trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!