“An hour past midnight. And until then ’tis a year in my desires,” said he.
“There spoke my noble lover,” said Sriva, giving him her mouth once more. And swiftly she fared through the shadowy archway and across the court to where in the north gallery her father Corsus had his chamber.
The Lord Corinius went back to his seat, and there reclined for a space in slothful ease, humming to an old tune:
My Mistris is a shittle-cock,
Compos’d of Cork and feather;
Each Battledore sets on her dock,
And bumps her on the leather.
But cast her off which way you Will,
She will requoile to another still—
Fa, la, la, la, la, la.