Like yonder swallow, I would soar away,—
⁠Above the sea, far from this buzzing mart;
But how can I? A cruel, little fay
⁠Has fettered with three golden threads my heart.

Her honeyed tongue the one; her eyes the other;
⁠The third her lips; and that completes her art.
No fruits from other gardens can I gather.
⁠For she has tied with golden threads my heart.

O, how I would asunder rend my chain.
⁠And from the tears and pangs of love depart:
Ah, no! 'tis better that I die in pain
⁠Than break the golden threads of my poor heart.