The singers of serenades Whisper their faded vows Unto fair listening maids Under the singing boughs. Tircis, Aminte, are there, Clitandre has waited long, And Damis for many a fair Tyrant makes many a song. Their short vests, silken and bright, Their long pale silken trains, Their elegance of delight, Twine soft blue silken chains. And the mandolines and they, Faintlier breathing, swoon Into the rose and grey Ecstasy of the moon. XVI. A CLYMÈNE Mystical strains unheard, A song without a word, Dearest, because thine eyes, Pale as the skies, Because thy voice, remote As the far clouds that float Veiling for me the whole Heaven of the soul, Because the stately scent Of thy swan's whiteness, blent With the white lily's bloom Of thy perfume, Ah! because thy dear love, The music breathed above By angels halo-crowned, Odour and sound, Hath, in my subtle heart, With some mysterious art Transposed thy harmony, So let it be! XVII. LETTRE Far from your sight removed by thankless cares (The gods are witness when a lover swears) I languish and I die, Madame, as still My use is, which I punctually fulfil, And go, through heavy-hearted woes conveyed, Attended ever by your lovely shade, By day in thought, by night in dreams of hell, And day and night, Madame, adorable! So that at length my dwindling body lost In very soul, I too become a ghost, I too, and in the lamentable stress Of vain desires remembering happiness, Remembered kisses, now, alas, unfelt, My shadow shall into your shadow melt. Meanwhile, dearest, your most obedient slave. How does the sweet society behave, Thy cat, thy dog, thy parrot? and is she Still, as of old, the black-eyed Silvanie (I had loved black eyes if thine had not been blue) Who ogled me at moments, palsambleu! Thy tender friend and thy sweet confidant? One dream there is, Madame, long wont to haunt This too impatient heart: to pour the earth And all its treasures (of how little worth!) Before your feet as tokens of a love Equal to the most famous flames that move The hearts of men to conquer all but death. Cleopatra was less loved, yes, on my faith, By Antony or Cæsar than you are, Madame, by me, who truly would by far Out-do the deeds of Cæsar for a smile, O Cleopatra, queen of word and wile, Or, for a kiss, take flight with Antony With this, farewell, dear, and no more from me; How can the time it takes to read it, quite Be worth the trouble that it took to write? XVIII. LES INDOLENTS Bah! spite of Fate, that says us nay, Suppose we die together, eh? --A rare conclusion you discover --What's rare is good. Let us die so, Like lovers in Boccaccio. --Ha! ha! ha! you fantastic lover!