1. Apres tant de jours, apres tant de pleurs, Soyez secourable a mon ame en peine. Voyez comme Avril fait l'amour aux fleurs; Dame d'amour, dame aux belles couleurs, Dieu vous a fait belle, Amour vous fait reine. 2. Rions, je t'en prie; aimons, je le veux. Le temps fuit et rit et ne revient guere Pour baiser le bout de tes blonds cheveux, Pour baiser tes cils, ta bouche et tes yeux; L'amour n'a qu'un jour aupres de sa mere. QUEEN. 'T is a true song; love shall not pluck time back Nor time lie down with love. For me, I am old; Have you no hair changed since you changed to Scot? I look each day to see my face drawn up About the eyes, as if they sucked the cheeks. I think this air and face of things here north Puts snow at flower-time in the blood, and tears Between the sad eyes and the merry mouth In their youth-days. CHASTELARD. It is a bitter air. QUEEN. Faith, if I might be gone, sir, would I stay? I think, for no man's love's sake. CHASTELARD. I think not. QUEEN. Do you yet mind at landing how the quay Looked like a blind wet face in waste of wind And washing of wan waves? how the hard mist Made the hills ache? your songs lied loud, my knight, They said my face would burn off cloud and rain Seen once, and fill the crannied land with fire, Kindle the capes in their blind black-gray hoods-- I know not what. You praise me past all loves; And these men love me little; 't is some fault, I think, to love me: even a fool's sweet fault. I have your verse still beating in my head Of how the swallow got a wing broken In the spring time, and lay upon his side Watching the rest fly off i' the red leaf-time, And broke his heart with grieving at himself Before the snow came. Do you know that lord With sharp-set eyes? and him with huge thewed throat? Good friends to me; I had need love them well. Why do you look one way? I will not have you Keep your eyes here: 't is no great wit in me To care much now for old French friends of mine.-- Come, a fresh measure; come, play well for me, Fair sirs, your playing puts life in foot and heart.-- DARNLEY. Lo you again, sirs, how she laughs and leans, Holding him fast--the supple way she hath! Your queen hath none such; better as she is For all her measures, a grave English maid, Than queen of snakes and Scots. RANDOLPH. She is over fair To be so sweet and hurt not. A good knight; Goodly to look on. MURRAY. Yea, a good sword too, And of good kin; too light of loving though; These jangling song-smiths are keen love-mongers, They snap at all meats. DARNLEY. What! by God I think, For all his soft French face and bright boy's sword, There be folks fairer: and for knightliness, These hot-lipped brawls of Paris breed sweet knights-- Mere stabbers for a laugh across the wine.--