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,