The Falcon (1772) - Page 23

He wrings its neck,

And then he sighs;

For my part I admire him,

I think he is mad.

He wrings its neck

For this little chicken;

She smells her good,

She is very well made,

She appeals to me;

But it is to be mad.

He wrings its neck

For this little chicken.

To count on life

Is to count on nothing,

Today my dear,

And tomorrow nothing more;

To count on life

Is to count on nothing.

Decorative horizontal line with ornamental curls at each end.

SCENE XVI.

GUILLAUME.

Good! I have the fruit, and he has the flowers, what a well-arranged garden!

CLITIE.

Federic, it is always you; you spare nothing: the fruits, the flowers, the buds, nothing costs you anything; it is always yourself.

FEDERIC.

For you, Madam.

CLITIE.

What pleasure will you have from seeing no flowers in your garden this autumn?

FEDERIC.

It will be enough for me to know why they are not there.