Rondeau

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we
  Are one and all so fain of thee?
  Thy rich red beauty debonnaire
  In very truth is not more fair,
  Than the shy grace and purity
  That clothe the maiden maidenly;
  Her gray eyes shine more tenderly
  And not less bright than thine her hair;
  Ah, Manon, say!
  Expound, I pray, the mystery
  Why wine-stained lip and languid eye,
  And most unsaintly Maenad air,
  Should move us more than all the rare
  White roses of virginity?
  Ah, Manon, say!