human
Here I'll halt; here's wine of joy for drinking; To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play; All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May.
gpt
Work is work, but any ye might make me, If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take me, So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May.
human
Medals count for worth, quoth she,
gpt
Lass, I love you! Love is strong, and some men's hearts are tender.