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Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck,

Arrow of Love—I bare my neck

Down to the bosom. See, no fleck


Of blood! I have never a wound; I go

Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho!

What 'neath my girdle flutters so?


'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings,

'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings;

While in the wound it nests and sings—

Heigh-ho!

He. Of Arion, of Arion
That wound thou shalt learn;

What nothings 'tis made of,

And soft pretty soothings

In shade of the fern.

She. When maids have a mind to,
Man's word they rely on,

Old warning are blind to--

I come, then—I come

To walk with Arion

Where green woods are dumb! II

He. Dear my love, and O my love,
And O my love so lately!

Did we wander yonder grove

And sit awhile sedately?

For either you did there conclude

To do at length as I did,

Or passion's fashion's turn'd a prude,

And troth's an oath derided.

She. Yea, my love—and nay, my love—
And ask me not to tell, love,

While I delay'd an idle day

What 'twixt us there befell, love.

Yet either I did sit beside

And do at length as you did,

Or my delight is lightly by

An idle lie deluded!