I thought no more of my master’s sword,
When I play’d on my master’s lute.
She seem’d to think me a boy above
Her pages of low degree;
Oh, had I but loved with a boyish love,
It would have been better for me;
Oh, had I, &c.
Then I’ll hide in my breast every selfish care;
I’ll flush my pale cheeks with wine;
When smiles awake the bridal pair