Valse Jeune

ARE there favoring ladies above thee? Are there dowries and lands? Do they say Seven others are fair? But I love thee: Aultre n’auray!

All the sea is a lawn in our county; All the morrow, our star of delay. I am King: let me live on thy bounty! Aultre n’auray!

To the fingers so light and so rosy That have pinioned my heart, (welladay!) Be a kiss, be a ring with this posy: Aultre n’auray!