Left to lie, with thin lips resting Frozen to a smile of scorn, Just the bitter thought's suggesting, At this excellent new jesting Of the rabble Devil-born.
Till some "tiger-monkey," finding These few words the covers bear, Some swift rush of pity blinding, Sent them in the shot-pierced binding "_A Lucile, en Angleterre_."
Fancies only! Nought the covers, Nothing more the leaves reveal, Yet I love it for its lovers, For the dream that round it hovers Of "Savignac" and "Lucile."
Before me, careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying; Full soon the elf untreasures His pack of pains and pleasures,-- With roguish eye, He bids me buy From out his pack of treasures.
His wallet's stuffed with blisses, With true-love-knots and kisses, With rings and rosy fetters, And sugared vows and letters;-- He holds them out With boyish flout, And bids me try the fetters.
Nay, Child (I cry), I know them; There's little need to show them! Too well for new believing I know their past deceiving,-- I am too old (I say), and cold, To-day, for new believing!
But still the wanton presses, With honey-sweet caresses, And still, to my undoing, He wins me, with his wooing, To buy his ware With all its care, Its sorrow and undoing.
When first I came to Court, _Fa la_! When first I came to Court, I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy, And Love an idle sport, A sport whereat a man might toy With little hurt and mickle joy-- When first I came to Court!
Too soon I found my fault, _Fa la_! Too soon I found my fault; The fairest of the fair brigade Advanced to mine assault. Alas! against an adverse maid Nor fosse can serve nor palisade-- Too soon I found my fault!
When SILVIA'S eyes assail, _Fa la_! When SILVIA'S eyes assail, No feint the arts of war can show, No counterstroke avail; Naught skills but arms away to throw, And kneel before that lovely foe, When SILVIA'S eyes assail!
Yet is all truce in vain, _Fa la_! Yet is all truce in vain, Since she that spares doth still pursue To vanquish once again; And naught remains for man to do But fight once more, to yield anew, And so all truce is vain!
Here, in this sequestered close Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.