She speaks.

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,

Is used to tie the jasmine back

That overfloods my room with sweets,

Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets

My Zanze! If the ribbon's black,

The Three are watching: keep away!

Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe

A mesh of water-weeds about

Its prow, as if he unaware