He

Though the roving bee, as lightly,
 Sip the sweets of thyme and clover,
Though the moon of May, as whitely,
 Silver all the greensward over,
  Yet, beneath the trysting tree,
  That hath been which shall not be!

She

Drip the viols, ne'er so sweetly,
 With the honey-dew of pleasure—
Trip the dancers, ne'er so featly,
 Through the old remembered measure,
  Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,
 What is lost shall not be found!