With sweet music and song,On pavement, are thine,
Then, with modesty, answer'd the son his impetuous father"Truly my wish was, like yours, to marry one of the daughtersOf our neighbour. We all, in fact, were brought up together,Sported in youthful days near the fountain adjoining the market,And from the rudeness of boys I often managed to save them.But those days have long pass'd the maidens grew up, and with reasonStop now at home and avoid the rougher pastimes of childhood.Well brought up with a vengeance they are! To please you, I sometimesWent to visit them, just for the sake of olden acquaintanceBut I was never much pleased at holding intercourse with them,For they were always finding fault, and I had to bear itFirst my coat was too long, the cloth too coarse, and the colourFar too common, my hair was cut and curl'd very badly.I at last was thinking of dressing myself like the shop-boys,Who are accustom'd on Sundays to show off their persons up yonder,And round whose coats in summer half-silken tatters are hanging.But ere long I discover'd they only intended to fool meThis was very annoying, my pride was offended, but more stillFelt I deeply wounded that they so mistook the good feelingsWhich I cherish'd towards them, especially Minnie, the youngest.Well, I went last Easter, politely to pay them a visit,And I wore the new coat now hanging up in the closet,And was frizzled and curld, like all the rest of the youngsters.When I enter'd, they titter'd; but that didn't very much matter.Minnie sat at the piano, the father was present amongst them,Pleased with his daughter's singing, and quite in a jocular humour.Little could I understand of the words in the song she was singing,But I constantly heard of Pamina, and then of Tamino,*
Through and through with flames are glowing!Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms,
On two legs now stand,
MAGNA PECCATRIX (St. Luke vii. 36).
Hark! now the curse is straight fulfill'd.
Dies in the trees.
Truth would appear in her own sweet guise,Beauteous, gentle, and close at hand.-----WHY these inquiries make,
Can listening aught avail me?I hear him toward my room hasten on,
Thousand greetings from my friend;Ere these hills own night's dark sway,
Though at first she feels confin'd,
But of the twain, the greater is my sorrow,--