Alas! poor mortal maid! unfit to hold
High converse with the glorious gods above,[145]
Each morn that breaks still finds me unconsoled,
Each hour still hears me sighing for thy love.
Wert thou a precious stone, I'd clasp thee tight
Around mine arm; wert thou a silken dress
I'd ne'er discard thee, either day or night:—
Last night, sweet love! I dreamt I saw thy face.
