Where nature, day by day,
Will sing, in altered tone,
This weary roundelay,
“He loves thee—he is gone.
Fa-la, fa-la, fa-la.”
He loves thee, he is gone. (Rises.)
Fred.In 1940 I of age shall be.
I’ll then return, and claim you—I declare it.
Mab.It seems so long!
Fred.Swear that, till then, you will be true to me.