SAINT IVES
Viscomte, your health. Confusion to the foe.
The noble lord your uncle—bless his name!
And may your wicked captors die in shame.
I kiss your hand; I kiss your forehead—so!
The castle cliff is steep, but down below
Both fortune and the lady Flora wait.
Oh, you will meet them, I anticipate,
Your hand upon your heart, and bowing low.