But only Brezonek could I speak,
When round my lover’s neck I hung
And heard the harmony of the Greek,
The march of Latin, the joy of French,
The valiance of the Hebrew speech,
The while its thirst my soul did quench
In the love-lore that he did teach.
The bossed and bound Evangel’s tome
Is open to me as mine own soul,
But all the watered wine of Rome