No—or she would sing;
For the Intendant said...
Third Girl. Oh, you sing first—
Then, if she listens and comes close...I'll tell you,
Sing that song the young English noble made,
Who took you for the purest of the pure,
And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!
Second Girl. [Sings.]
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,
From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heart full now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like!
You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet
Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.
What's death!—You'll love me yet!
Third Girl. [To Pippa who approaches.] Oh, you may come closer—we shall not eat you! Why, you seem the very person that the great rich handsome Englishman has fallen so violently in love with! I'll tell you all about it.