Ne’er will I this refuge leave.
Oh! ye green leaves of the vineyard
Grapes that I no more may taste!
Quickly may ye pine and wither,
Quickly pine like me and waste.’
Thrice the sun hath sunk and ris’n,
Still groaning thus he lonely sate,
While faithful Countess grieving utter’d:
‘How shall I soothe his mournful state?’
Whither may she flee for succour?