With measured pulsings of delirious joy—
So look I, Mariana, on thine eyes!
Mariana.
Ah, dearest! wherefore are we fashioned thus?
I cannot always hang around thy neck
And plant vermilion kisses on thy brow;
I cannot clasp thee, as yon ivy bush—
Too happy ivy!—holds, from year to year,
The stalwart oak within her firm embrace,
Mixing her tresses fondly up with his,