Sing that song the young English noble made,
Who took you for the purest of the pure,
And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!
2d. Girl. [Sings.]
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,
From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartfull now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,