XV.

Come, silvery moon, so silent and coy, What does my brown sweetheart that dwells by the mere? Say, was she not kissed by a flaxen-haired boy? Or whispers a stranger soft words in her ear?

On second thoughts, better, moon, darling, be mute, The odious trade of a telltale eschewing; Or perhaps you might tell her—and that would not suit— What yesterday evening myself I was doing!