Valse Jeune

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ARE 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 country;  
  All the morrow, our star of delay.
I am King: let me live on thy bounty!
  Aulture 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!

© Louise Imogen Guiney