She yields no right through frailty;Her favour is a favour still,
His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.
With her food-basket in her hand!Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking!Alive all the trees and the bushes appear,While to her feet whole troops draw near;The very fish within, the water clearSplash with impatience and their heads protrude;And then she throws around the foodWith such a look!--the very gods delighting(To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting,A picking, a pecking, a sipping,And each o'er the legs of another is tripping,And pushing, and pressing, and flapping,And chasing, and fuming, and snapping,And all for one small piece of bread,To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste,As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd.
Jail-bread we're forced to eat.
No longer dared to croak or spring;But promised, being half asleep,If suffer'd to the air to creep,
Now doth he deck the garden-turret fair
Is in my mind portray'd;Her garter I recall anon,--
"Why did I trust her, why she trust me e'er?For such a sister, how I Heaven should praise!"
Fit for a couch where we both, lovingly, gently may rest;Costly pieces of linen. Thou sittest and sewest, and clothest
She bears the mother across the spray.
Eve near him,--she, too, fell asleep.There lay they now, on earth's fair shrine,God's two most beauteous thoughts divine.--When this He saw, He cried:--'Tis Good!!!And scarce could move from where He stood.
May this our joy's foreboder prove!
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