Sweet, let us pick the fresh and opening rose, Which doth each charm of form and hue display: Hard by the margent of yon font it blows, Mid guarding thorns and many a tufted spray; And in yourself while springtide freshly glows, Dear heart, with some sweet bloom my love repay: Soon winter comes, all flowers to nip and close, Nor love itself can hinder time's decay. No poet is more determined to deal out his compliments in a liberal, open-handed way than is the Sicilian. While the Venetians and the Tuscans are content with claiming seven distinctive beauties for the object of their affection, the Sicilian boldly asserts that his _bedda_ possesses no less than thirty-three _biddizzi_. In the same manner, when he is about sending his salutations, he sends them without stint: Many the stars that sparkle in the sky, Many the grains of sand and pebbles small; And in the ocean's plains the finny fry And leaves that flourish in the woods and fall, Countless earth's human hordes that live and die, The flowers that wake to life at April's call, And all the fruits the summer heats supply-- My greetings sent to thee out-number all. On some rare occasions the incident which suggested the song may be gathered from the lips of the person who recites it. In one case we are told that a certain sailor, on his return from a long voyage, hastened to the house of his betrothed, to bid her prepare for the wedding. But he was met by the mother-in-law elect, who told him to go his way, for his love was dead--the truth being that she had meanwhile married a shoemaker. One fine day the disconsolate sailor had the not unmixed gratification of seeing her alive and well, looking out of her husband's house, and that night he sang her a reproachful serenade, inquiring wherefore she had hidden from him, that though dead to him she lived for another? This deceived mariner must have been a rather exceptional individual, for although there are baker-poets, carpenter-poets, waggoner-poets, poets in short of almost every branch of labour and humble trade, a sailor-poet is not often to be heard of. Dr Pitre remarks that sailors pick up foreign songs in their voyages, mostly English and American, and come home inclined to look down upon the folk-songs and singers of their native land. The serenades and aubades are among the most delicate and elegant of all the _canzuni d'amuri_; this is one, which contains a favourite fancy of peasant lovers: Life of my life, who art my spirit and soul, By no suspicions be nor doubts oppressed, Love me, and scorn false jealousy's control-- I not a thousand hearts have in my breast, I had but one, and gave to thee the whole. Come then and see, if thou the truth wouldst test, Instead of my own heart, my love, my soul, Thou wilt thine image find within my breast! Another poet treats somewhat the same idea in a drolly realistic way--