At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale’s song in the grove.
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb the steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar?
How sweet the words of Truth, breathed from the lips of Love.
Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.
No jealousy their dawn of love overcast, nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; each season looked delightful as it past, to the fond husband and the faithful wife.