This is doubtless the _Discours merveilleux de la vie, actions, et déportemens de la reine Catherine de Médicis_, attributed to Théodore de Bèze, also to de Serres, but with more probability to Henri Étienne; coming certainly from the hand of a master. It was printed and spread about publicly in 1574 with the date of 1575; inserted soon after in the _Mémoires d’État sous Charles IX._, printed in 1577 in three volumes, 8vo, and subsequently in the various editions of the _Reccuil de diverses pièces pour servir à l’histoire du règne de Henri III._ French editor. III. (See page 91.) M. de Maison-Fleur was a gentleman of the Bordeaux region, a Huguenot, and a somewhat celebrated poet in his day, whose principal work, _Les Divins Cantiques_, was printed for the first time at Antwerp in 1580, and several times reprinted in succeeding years. For details on this poet, see the _Bibliothèque Française_ of the Abbé Goujet. French editor. IV. (See page 92.) We see, ’neath white attire, In mourning great and sadness, Passing, with many a charm Of beauty, this fair goddess, Holding the shaft in hand Of her son, heartless. And Love, without his frontlet, Fluttering round her, Hiding his bandaged eyes With veil of mourning On which these words are writ: DIE OR BE CAPTURED. V. (See page 94.) _Translation as nearly literal as possible._ In my sad, sweet song, In tones most lamentable I cast my cutting grief Of loss incomparable; And in poignant sighs I pass my best of years. Was ever such an ill Of hard destiny, Or so sad a sorrow Of a happy lady, That my heart and eye Should gaze on bier and coffin? That I, in my sweet springtide, In the flower of youth, All these pains should feel Of excessive sadness, With naught to give me pleasure Except regret and yearning? That which to me was pleasant Now is hard and painful; The brightest light of day Is darkness black and dismal; Nothing is now delight In that of me required. I have, in heart and eye, A portrait and an image That mark my mourning life And my pale visage With violet tones that are The tint of grieving lovers. For my restless sorrow I can rest nowhere; Why should I change in place Since sorrow will not efface? My worst and yet my best Are in the loneliest places. When in some still sojourn In forest or in field, Be it by dawn of day, Or in the vesper hour, Unceasing feels my heart Regret for one departed. If sometimes toward the skies My glance uplifts itself, The gentle iris of his eyes I see in clouds; or else I see it in the water, As in a grave. If I lie at rest Slumbering on my couch, I hear him speak to me, I feel his touch; In labour, in repose, He is ever near me.