Or I myself shall recreant be.’
Oh! the green leaves of the Vine tree!
Grapes I sought with eager haste!
To the soul their beauty touch’ me,
Bloom so pure I dar’d not taste.
Quickly thence the Countess hurried;
The king, he did not tarry more.
What they say I wish to hear,
So will I listen at the door.
Hist!—A voice of heavenly sweetness