Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preëminent lady of Langue d’Oc some trait or some fair semblance: thus of Cembelins her “esgart amoros,” to wit, her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult’s; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, “although she would that ill come unto him” he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make “Una dompna soiseubuda” a borrowed lady or, as the Italians translated it, “Una donna ideale.” “Though thou well dost wish me ill,” Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices, Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render, Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion? Here a word kiss! Pass I on Unto Lady “Miels-de-Ben,” Having praised thy girdle’s scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope That thou shouldst .... Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything. Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl Thy satins make upon the stair, ’Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set In rose and gold.[2] Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase “Audiart, Audiart” .... Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill, Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till, Audiart, Oh, till thou come again.[3] And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold Upon thy hands, and thy old soul, Scorning a new, wry’d casement, Churlish at seemed misplacement, Finds the earth as bitter As now seems it sweet, Being so young and fair As then only in dreams— Being then young and wry’d, Broken of ancient pride, Thou shalt then soften, Knowing I know not how Thou wert once she, Audiart, Audiart, For whose fairness one forgave, Audiart, Audiart Que be-m vols mal. [2] _I. e. in illumed manuscript._ [3] _Reincarnate._ VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE