How your master I may win.
Leporello answers gaily
Slip into his bed and way lay
Him; anon he shall come in.
Soon as he shall find you laid there
Fresh and young, so sweet a maid there,
He shall smile, and joyfully
“I am hungry, Leporello,
Bring us wine, good wine and mellow,
Here is one would sup with me.”
Wine then will I bring (not water),
A feast fit for a king’s daughter,
Lay it out in the alcove,
While my Lord with pleasant fancies
Makes his court to you, romances
Of your beauty and his love.
Passion soon shall rise full blossom;
He shall weep upon your bosom,
Make you all his soul’s display.
He, in honour as a true man,
Shall declare you the sole woman
He has loved until to–day.
At the last he shall possess you,
And all night. Then with “God bless you”
Turn to sleep, nor shall you know,
Curtained in your silks and satins,
How at dawn he was off “to matins.”
His politeness called it so.
But remember, from next morning
You must quite forget the adorning
Of to–night, or earn his curse.
Gold is yours if you but ask it,
Spain and Flanders in a basket.
I am keeper of his purse.
To console you be a forture
Will not grudge. But to importune
His more tenderness? Nay, Nay.
A return to even your beauty
Were too costly a Duke’s duty,
One his whole wealth could not pay.