Les Indolents

Bah! spite of Fate, that says us nay,
Suppose we die together, eh?
     —A rare conclusion you discover!

—What’s rare is good. Let us die so,
Like lovers in Boccaccio.
     —Hi! hi! hi! you fantastic lover!

—Nay, not fantastic. If you will,
Fond, surely irreproachable.
     Suppose, then, that we die together?

—Good sir, your jests are fitlier told
Than when you speak of love or gold.
     Why speak at all, in this glad weather?

Whereat, behold them once again,
Tircis beside his Dorimène,
     Not far from two blithe rustic rovers,

For some caprice of idle breath
Deferring a delicious death.
     Hi! hi! hi! what fantastic lovers!