By Armenia's maiden pale,
When she coyly and slowly discloses
The glories beneath her veil.
And a lute from her mother receiving,
With a blush that a miser would move,
She treads a soft measure, believing
That music is sister to love.
Like a sapling her form in its swaying,
Full of slender and lissomy grace
As she bends to the time of her playing,