of grief, thinking that some great misfortune had befallen her, in the loss of her flock, or the death of her father or brother, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of my smock, and asked her to tell me what misfortune it was that caused her to lament so much. She, continuing her tears, nor giving truce to her sighs, said to me: "What greater misfortune, oh Teolinda, would you have happen to me, than that the son of the chief man in our village, whom I love more than the very eyes in my head, should have gone away without saying a word to me; and that I have this morning seen in possession of Leocadia, daughter of the head shepherd Lisalco, a crimson belt which I had given to that false Eugenio, whereby was confirmed the suspicion I had of the love-affair the traitor was carrying on with her?" When I ceased hearing her complaints, I swear to you, friends and ladies mine, that I could not cease from laughing within myself, and saying to her: "By my faith, Lydia," (for so the unhappy girl was called) "I thought from your complaints that you came stricken with another and a greater wound. But now I know how void of sense are you who fancy yourselves in love, in making much ado about such childish things. Tell me on your life, dear Lydia, what is the worth of a crimson belt, that it should grieve you to see it in Leocadia's possession or to find that Eugenio has given it to her? You would do better to consider your honour and what concerns the pasturage of your sheep, and not to mix yourself up with these fooleries of love, since we draw nothing from them, so far as I see, but loss of honour and of peace." When Lydia heard from me a reply so contrary to the one she hoped for from my lips and pitying disposition, she did nothing but bow her head, and adding tear to tear and sob to sob, went from me; and after a little while, turning her head, she said to me: "I pray God, Teolinda, that soon you may see yourself in a state, compared to which you would count mine happy, and that love may so treat you that you may tell your grief to one who will value it and feel it in such wise as you have done mine;" and therewith she went away, and I was left laughing at her madness. But ah! poor me! I perceive clearly at every moment that her curse is working in me, since even now I fear that I am telling my grief to one who will sorrow but little at having learnt it!' Thereto Galatea replied: 'Would to God, discreet Teolinda, that you might find a remedy for your loss as easily as you will find in us pity for it, for you would soon lose the suspicion you cherish of our sympathy.'