A Cypress and a Myrtle bough, [5]
This morn around my harp you twin'd,
Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
3
And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
A woeful Tale of Love I sing: 10
Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.
4
But most, my own dear Genevieve!
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear the cruel wrongs [15]
Befel the dark Ladie!
5
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve. [20]
6
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.