So many marvels are written of the sweet miracles of Our Lady, that amongst them I scarce know which to choose. Yet, alas! I have not that long leisure to set them forth before you every one. Then must it be with me as with him who walks abroad through summer meadows deep in flowers. Before, behind, on either side, he sees the countless blossoms of the field. Blue, vermeil, gold, they dance upon the green. Then, since he may not gather all, he plucks a rose, a lily, here and there, as he may find them to his hand. So from amongst the number of Our Lady's lovely deeds I pluck a leaf, one here, one there, and wreathe this artless garland, lest I have naught to cast before her feet. * * * * * In days long past--as the scribe hath truly written--there lived in the strong city of Byzantium a certain citizen, who held Our Lady very dear. Rich he was, and of great worship, because of his wealth and of the praise of men. To keep his station in the eyes of his fellows, he spent his substance so largely, and thereto so wantonly, that in a little while he had wasted all his goods, and naught remained to do but that he must sell his very lands. Yet so rich of heart was this burgess that not poverty even might make him knot his purse. He still kept open house, and gave goodly cheer to all, ever borrowing more and more, spending and vending, wasting and hasting to scatter everything he had. For of poverty he had neither heed nor fear, so long as he might find a man to lend. But at the last he was utterly undone. All his friends passed him by when they saw how deeply he was sunk in debt, and that to no lender did he e'er repay what he owed. For he who borrows, never paying back again, neither seeking from others that which is his due, very quickly loses his credit, yea, though he be the King of France. The good citizen was sore vexed, and knew not what to do or say, when he found that his creditors pressed him hardly, and that he was wholly disappointed of those friends in whom he put his trust. Sore was his sorrow, deep his distress, and bitter his shame, his wrath and sadness, when by no means whatever might he grant his customary bounty, nor of his charity give alms and benefits to the poor. So long as he was a man of worship, with store of gold and silver, great were his doles to those of low estate. But such was the malice wherewith Dame Fortune pursued him, and such the shame and loss she set upon him, that he had nothing left to give to others, or to keep for himself. And since Dame Fortune looked upon him with a frowning countenance, there was none to welcome him with a smiling face.