I say not that: yet prithee have a care!
Often audacity has proved a snare.
How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow—
Does thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?
Pierrot.
As one who faints upon the Libyan plain
Fears the oasis which brings life again!
The Lady.
Where far away green palm trees seem to stand
May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.
Pierrot.
Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught,
Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.
The Lady.
Dost thou persist?
Pierrot.