Lo, hear the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts on up high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast,
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
The cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
[192]: Comparez les premières poésies d'Alfred de Musset, Contes d'Italie et d'Espagne.
[193]: Crawley, cité par Chasles, Études sur Shakspeare.
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies.
Those lips of thine
That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments,
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.
[196]: Voy. la fin de Gérard de Nerval.