Light-hearted is thy lay,
As, on the lemon spray,
Love, little singing bird, made thee rejoice.
For, from thy lady’s lip,
Oft is it thine to sip
Sweetness which dwells not in fruit or in flower;
And when her shaded eye
Rests on thee pensively,
Moonlight was ne’er so soft silv’ring thy bower.
Likest to thee is Love,