Such is thy pleasure, Love And such the allegresse I feel thereby That happy, burning in thy fire, am I. The abounding gladness in my heart that glows, For the high joy and dear Whereto thou hast me led, Unable to contain there, overflows And in my face’s cheer Displays my happihead: for being enamoured In such a worship-worthy place and high Makes eath to me the burning I aby. I cannot with my finger what I feel Limn, Love, nor do I know By bliss in song to vent; Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal, For, once divulged, I trow ’Twould turn to dreariment. Yet am I so content, All speech were halt and feeble, did I try The least thereof with words to signify. Who might conceive it that these arms of mine Should anywise attain Whereas I’ve held them aye, Or that my face should reach so fair a shrine As that, of favor fain And grace, I’ve won to? Nay, Such fortune ne’er a day Believed me were; whence all afire am I, Hiding the source of my liesse thereby. This was the end of Pamfilo’s song, whereto albeit it had been completely responded of all, there was none but noted the words thereof with more attent solicitude than pertained unto him, studying to divine that which, as he sang, it behoved him to keep hidden from them; and although sundry went imagining various things, nevertheless none happened upon the truth of the case. * * * * * At the end of the ninth day, Neifile sings: Supper at an end, they arose to the wonted dances, and after they had sung a thousand canzonets, more diverting of words than masterly of music, the king bade Neifile sing one in her own name; whereupon, with clear and blithesome voice, she cheerfully and without delay began thus: