That I rather should relish that kind
of thing.
But can you not carol a heart-felt lay,
On the pleasures and pains of love—
A melody soft as a breeze in May,
And pure as the skies above?
I think—whenever I hear you sing—
That there may be a charm in that kind of thing.
Come, chirrup me gaily a drinking-stave,
Of the bowl and its deep delights—