Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes Is to remind us of our happy days In misery, and that thy teacher knows. But if to learn our passion's first root preys Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, I will do even as he who weeps and says. We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, Of Lancelot, how love enchained him too. We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue All o'er discolored by that reading were; But one point only wholly us o'erthrew; When we read the long-sighed-for smile of her, To be thus kissed by such devoted lover, He who from me can be divided ne'er Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over. Accursed was the book and he who wrote! That day no further leaf did we uncover." (BYRON: _Francesca of Rimini_, from Dante's _Inferno_, Canto V. 1820.) "Wherefore for thee I think and deem it well Thou follow me, and I will bring about Thy passage thither where the eternal dwell. There shalt thou hearken the despairing shout, Shalt see the ancient spirits with woe opprest, Who craving for the second death cry out. Then shalt thou those behold who are at rest Amid the flame, because their hopes aspire To come, when it may be, among the blest. If to ascend to these be thy desire, Thereto shall be a soul of worthier strain; Thee shall I leave with her when I retire: Because the Emperor who there doth reign, For I rebellious was to his decree, Wills that his city none by me attain. In all parts ruleth, and there reigneth he,-- There is his city and his lofty throne: O happy they who thereto chosen be!" (MELVILLE B. ANDERSON: _Dante's Inferno_, Canto i. ll. 112-129.) QUATRAINS _aaaa_ Suete iesu, king of blysse, Myn huerte love, min huerte lisse, Þou art suete myd ywisse, Wo is him þat þe shal misse! (Song from Harleian Ms. 2253--12th century, Böddeker's _Altenglische Dichtungen_, p. 191.) _aabb_ O Lord, that rul'st our mortal line, How through the world Thy name doth shine; Thou hast of Thy unmatched glory Upon the heavens engrav'd Thy story. (SIR PHILIP SIDNEY: _Psalm viii._ ab. 1580.) A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night. (SHELLEY: _The Sensitive Plant._ 1820.) _abcb_ In somer, when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and long, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song. (Ballad of _Robin Hood and the Monk_. In Gummere's _English Ballads_, p. 77.)