And if I thousands of girls should see,
To love but the one I am willing.
And if ever thy solid pile should bear
The weight of her footsteps, I will swear,
Even thy cold frame would be thrilling.
But useless the longing and useless the woe,
The sun is too ardent so far to go,
And flying is not yet invented.
Padrone, another bottle of wine!
This Orvieto so pearly and fine