Nor is his matter more original. He tells a story of thwarted and finally fortunate love, and his hero is "a Christened knight"--like Tamlane,--his heroine a Paynim lady. To be sure, Nicolete was baptized before the tale begins, and it is she who is a captive among Christians, not her lover, as usual, who is a captive among Saracens. The author has reversed the common arrangement, and he appears to have cared little more than his reckless hero, about creeds and differences of faith. He is not much interested in the recognition of Nicolete by her great Paynim kindred, nor indeed in any of the "business" of the narrative, the fighting, the storms and tempests, and the burlesque of the kingdom of Torelore. What the nameless author does care for, is his telling of the love-story, the passion of Aucassin and Nicolete. His originality lies in his charming medley of sentiment and humour, of a smiling compassion and sympathy with a touch of mocking mirth. The love of Aucassin and Nicolete-- "Des grans paines qu'il soufri," that is the one thing serious to him in the whole matter, and that is not so very serious. {2} The story-teller is no Mimnermus, Love and Youth are the best things he knew,--"deport du viel caitif,"--and now he has "come to forty years," and now they are with him no longer. But he does not lament like Mimnermus, like Alcman, like Llwyarch Hen. "What is Life, what is delight without golden Aphrodite? May I die!" says Mimnermus, "when I am no more conversant with these, with secret love, and gracious gifts, and the bed of desire." And Alcman, when his limbs waver beneath him, is only saddened by the faces and voices of girls, and would change his lot for the sea-birds. {3} "Maidens with voices like honey for sweetness that breathe desire, Would that I were a sea-bird with limbs that never could tire, Over the foam-flowers flying with halcyons ever on wing, Keeping a careless heart, a sea-blue bird of the spring." But our old captive, having said farewell to love, has yet a kindly smiling interest in its fever and folly. Nothing better has he met, even now that he knows "a lad is an ass." He tells a love story, a story of love overmastering, without conscience or care of aught but the beloved. And the _viel caitif_ tells it with sympathy, and with a smile. "Oh folly of fondness," he seems to cry, "oh merry days of desolation" "When I was young as you are young, When lutes were touched and songs were sung, And love lamps in the windows hung."