I would on my love set eyes,
Here I know her path-way lies.
Could I hope a kiss to earn,
Into weeks the days might turn;
Could I hope to win my dear,
Then each day might be a year!
XV.
Come, silvery moon, so silent and coy,
What does my brown sweetheart that dwells by the mere?
Say, was she not kissed by a flaxen-haired boy?