_“For I, a maiden of thy maiden train, Am fitter far, with quiver and with bow, To roam the forest, than 'neath love’s soft reign To do a husband’s will; and if thou go In memory back, thou must in mind retain How harder face than granite did we show ’Gainst headlong Venus’ law, based not on reason, But headlong passion, to its promptings treason._ _“And if it be my better fate to stay A little maid amid thy vestal throng, The fierce and burning fumes do thou allay Sprung from desires so passionate and strong Of both the enamoured youths my love who pray, And both for joy of love from me do long, Let peace supplant between them war’s contention, Since grief to me, thou know’st, is their dissension._ _“And if it be reserved for me by fate To Juno’s law subjected now to be, Ah, pardon thou my lapse from maiden state, Nor therefore be my prayer refused by thee; On others’ will, thou seest, condemned to wait, My actions must conform to their decree: Then help me, Goddess, hear my prayer thus lowly, Who still deserve thy favour high and holy.”_ Boccaccio thought little of his own poetry, would have destroyed his sonnets but for the remonstrances of Petrarch, and laments that even the incitement of Fiammetta is unavailing to spur him on to the Temple of Fame. Yet in another place he says that he has spared no pains to excel: _Study I have not spared, or scanted time: Now rest unto my labour I permit, Lamenting this so tittle could avail To raise me to that eminence sublime._ This judgment was unreasonably severe. It is true, nevertheless, that Boccaccio would have gained more renown as a poet if the taste of his time had permitted him to seek inspiration among the people for his verses, as he did for his stories. How exquisite he could sometimes be is shown by two of the sonnets translated by Rossetti--versions, it must be owned, which surpass the originals: _Love steered my course, while yet the sun rode high, On Scylla’s waters to a myrtle-grove: The heaven was still and the sea did not move; Yet now and then a little breeze went by, Stirring the tops of trees against the sky: And then I heard a song as glad as love, So sweet that never yet the like thereof Was heard in any mortal company. “A nymph, a goddess, or an angel sings Unto herself, within this chosen place Of ancient loves,” so said I at that sound. And there my lady, 'mid the shadowings Of myrtle-trees, 'mid flowers and grassy space, Singing I saw, with others who sat round._