The Harvesters

How is that! you have a charming daughter.

Ah! your compliment must flatter me greatly.

How touching and beautiful is Rosine!
She pleases without seeking to.
Nature thinks for her,
And forbids art from touching her.
Her sweet and naive appearance
Is like the flower of the fields,
Which, without care, without being cultivated,
Is born from the breath of spring.
But to please even more,
She should have a lover.
Love is the makeup of her age
And one beautifies oneself by loving.
Love is the zephyr of the beautiful:
The beautiful are so many flowers;
He caresses them with his wings,
To bring out their colors.

The moral is quite nice!
It tends to form the heart!
And if I consented to it, would you do me the honor
Of being the zephyr for my daughter?

Can you, without shedding tears,
See toil wither her enchanting attractions,
To relieve your poverty a little,
And braving the burning heat of the sun,
Pull with effort her weak subsistence
From the ears of corn that the harvesters
Let fall out of negligence?

For others it is nothing; for us it is abundance.

Without exposing herself to suspicion, to contempt,