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SCENE.—Würzburg—a garden in the environs. 1512.
FESTUS, PARACELSUS, MICHAL.
Par. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; thus ! Close to the heart which, though long time roll by Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours, As now it beats-perchance a long, long time— At least henceforth your memories shall make Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. Nor shall my memory want a home in yoursAlas, that it requires too well such free
Forgiving love as shall embalm it there!
Par. Drop by drop !-she is weeping like a child!
Not so! I am content-more than content
Nay, Autumn wins you best by this its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay!
Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less
Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down, Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit,
That apple-tree with a rare after-birth
Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among!