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!