LXXIV.
Wert thou, in sooth, mine honored wife,
Then shouldst thou envied be;
A merry pastime were thy life—
All pleasure, mirth, and glee.
And should'st thou scold, and rail and curse,
I'd meekly bear my fate;
But if thou do not praise my verse,
Then shall we separate.
LXXV.
Upon thy snow-white shoulders
I lean my head at rest;
And secretly I hearken
To the yearning of thy breast.
In thy heart hussars blue-coated
Are riding and blowing their horn;
And my darling will surely desert me
With the earliest streak of morn.
And if thou desert me to-morrow,
None the less art thou mine to-day.
And within thine arms so lovely,
Still doubly blest I stay.
LXXVI.
Hussars are blowing their trumpets,
And to thy doors they ride.
A garland of wreathed roses
I bring to thee, my bride.