_Frate._ Ay, true. I had quite forgotten: that is to say, I recollect it. You told us as much, I think, in a poem on her death. Well, and do you know! our friend Giovanni here is a bit of an author in his way. _Boccaccio._ Frate! you confuse my modesty. _Frate._ Murder will out. It is a fact, on my conscience. Have you never heard anything about it, Canonico! Ha! we poets are sly fellows: we can keep a secret. _Boccaccio._ Are you quite sure you can? _Frate._ Try, and trust me with any. I am a confessional on legs: there is no more a whisper in me than in a woolsack. I am in feather again, as you see; and in tune, as you shall hear. April is not the month for moping. Sing it lustily. _Boccaccio._ Let it be your business to sing it, being a Frate; I can only recite it. _Frate._ Pray do, then. _Boccaccio._ Frate Biagio! sempre quando Qua tu vieni cavalcando, Pensi che le buone strade Per il mondo sien ben rade; E, di quante sono brutte, La piu brutta e tua di tutte. Badi, non cascare sulle Graziosissime fanciulle, Che con capo dritto, alzato, Uova portano al mercato. Pessima mi pare l'opra Rovesciarle sottosopra. Deh! scansando le erte e sassi, Sempre con premura passi. Caro amico! Frate Biagio! Passi pur, ma passi adagio. _Frate._ Well now really, Canonico, for one not exactly one of us, that canzone of Ser Giovanni has merit; has not it? I did not ride, however, to-day; as you may see by the lining of my frock. But _plus non vitiat_; ay, Canonico! About the roads he is right enough; they are the devil's own roads; that must be said for them. Ser Giovanni! with permission; your mention of eggs in the canzone has induced me to fancy I could eat a pair of them. The hens lay well now: that white one of yours is worth more than the goose that laid the golden: and you have a store of others, her equals or betters: we have none like them at poor St. Vivaldo. _A riverderci, Ser Giovanni! Schiavo! Ser Canonico! mi commandino._ * * * * *