Well, suppose;
But in my wildest flight, I know the nest
In which my heart’s dove longs to be at rest!
Falk.
Well then, to-morrow it may fly con brio;
You’re off into the hills with the quartette.
I’ll guarantee you against cold and wet—
Lind.
Pooh, the quartette may go and climb in trio,
The lowly dale has mountain air for me;