We want a cavalier, said she, holding out both her hands, as if to offer them—And a cavalier ye shall have; said I, taking hold of both of them.
Hadst thou, Nannette, been array’d like a dutchesse!
——But that cursed slit in thy petticoat!
Nannette cared not for it.
We could not have done without you, said she, letting go one hand, with self-taught politeness, leading me up with the other.
A lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed with a pipe, and to which he had added a tabourin of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude, as he sat upon the bank——Tie me up this tress instantly, said Nannette, putting a piece of string into my hand—It taught me to forget I was a stranger——The whole knot fell down——We had been seven years acquainted.
The youth struck the note upon the tabourin—his pipe followed, and off we bounded——“the duce take that slit!”
The sister of the youth, who had stolen her voice from heaven, sung alternately with her brother——’twas a Gascoigne roundelay.
VIVA LA JOIA!
FIDON LA TRISTESSA!
The nymphs join’d in unison, and their swains an octave below them——