I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove,
Who craves a refuge on the breast of love.
The Lady.
What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon?
Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon.
Pierrot.
Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car,
Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star—
Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,—
Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies,
Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids,
Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades;
Mount me beside thee, bear me far away
From the low regions of the solar day;
Over the rainbow, up into the moon,
Where is thy palace and thine opal throne;
There on thy bosom—
The Lady.
Too ambitious boy!
I did but promise thee one hour of joy.
This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light,
Could hardly be completed in a night.
Hast thou no craving less remote than this?
Pierrot.
Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?
The Lady.