‘My plaintive nightingale, shall we hunt to-day?’
‘Alas! my rose, I would rather lie upon this lazy couch, and gaze upon thy beauty!’
‘Or sail upon the cool and azure lake, in some bright barque, like to a sea-nymph’s shell, and followed by the swans?’
‘There is no lake so blue as thy deep eye; there is no swan so white as thy round arm!’
‘Or shall we launch our falcons in the air, and bring the golden pheasant to our feet?’
‘I am the golden pheasant at thy feet; why wouldst thou richer prey?’
‘Rememberest thou thy earliest visit to this dear kiosk, my gentle mute? There thou stoodst with folded arms and looks demure as day, and ever and anon with those dark eyes stealing a glance which made my cheek quite pale. Methinks I see thee even yet, shy bird. Dost know, I was so foolish when it quitted me, dost know I cried?’
‘Ah, no! thou didst not cry?’
‘Indeed, I think I did.’
‘Tell me again, my own Schirene, indeed didst cry?’