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On a dancing-girl
When that beauty of a dancing-girl her castanets hath ta’en,
Should the sun and moon behold her, jealous, each were rent in twain.
Patience from my soul is banished when beginneth she to dance;
Leaps with her my heart; my eyesight, faltering, is like to wane.
When the moon looks down upon her, must it not be seared of heart?
Yonder moon-fair one her crimson skirt for halo bright hath ta’en.
In her motions and her pausings what varieties of grace!
While her lovely frame doth tremble, like to quicksilver, amain!
Full delighted at her motions, loud as thunder roars the drum;
Beats its breast the tambourine, its bells commence to mourn and plain.
When she cometh, like a fairy, begging money from the crowd,
In her tambourine, had one a hundred lives, he’d cast them fain.
Deck her out on gala-days, and take her by the hand, Belig;
Yonder spark-like Idol hath consumed my soul with fiery pain.
Belig