_("Un soldat au dur visage.")_
[CROMWELL, ACT I.]
"Hold, little blue-eyed page!"
So cried the watchers surly,
Stern to his pretty rage
And golden hair so curly--
"Methinks your satin cloak
Masks something bulky under;
I take this as no joke--
Oh, thief with stolen plunder!"
"I am of high repute,
And famed among the truthful:
This silver-handled lute
Is meet for one still youthful
Who goes to keep a tryst
With her who is his dearest.
I charge you to desist;
My cause is of the clearest."
But guardsmen are so sharp,
Their eyes are as the lynx's:
"That's neither lute nor harp--
Your mark is not the minxes.
Your loving we dispute--
That string of steel so cruel
For music does not suit--
You go to fight a duel!"