Fostered with such constant, unremitting care, and nourished by the richness given to the soil by the decaying head that lay therein, the basil burgeoned out in exceeding great beauty and fragrance. And, the girl persevering ever in this way of life, the neighbours from time to time took note of it, and when her brothers marvelled to see her beauty ruined, and her eyes as it were evanished from her head, they told them of it, saying:--"We have observed that such is her daily wont." Whereupon the brothers, marking her behaviour, chid her therefore once or twice, and as she heeded them not, caused the pot to be taken privily from her. Which, so soon as she missed it, she demanded with the utmost instance and insistence, and, as they gave it not back to her, ceased not to wail and weep, insomuch that she fell sick; nor in her sickness craved she aught but the pot of basil. Whereat the young men, marvelling mightily, resolved to see what the pot might contain; and having removed the earth they espied the cloth, and therein the head, which was not yet so decayed, but that by the curled locks they knew it for Lorenzo's head. Passing strange they found it, and fearing lest it should be bruited abroad, they buried the head, and, with as little said as might be, took order for their privy departure from Messina, and hied them thence to Naples. The girl ceased not to weep and crave her pot, and, so weeping, died. Such was the end of her disastrous love; but not a few in course of time coming to know the truth of the affair, there was one that made the song that is still sung: to wit:-- A thief he was, I swear, A sorry Christian he, That took my basil of Salerno fair, etc.(1) (1) This Sicilian folk-song, of which Boccaccio quotes only the first two lines, is given in extenso from MS. Laurent. 38, plut. 42, by Fanfani in his edition of the Decameron (Florence, 1857). The following is a free rendering° A thief he was, I swear, A sorry Christian he, That took my basil of Salerno fair, That flourished mightily. Planted by mine own hands with loving care What time they revelled free: To spoil another's goods is churlish spite. To spoil another's goods is churlish spite, Ay, and most heinous sin. A basil had I (alas! luckless wight!), The fairest plant: within Its shade I slept: 'twas grown to such a height. But some folk for chagrin 'Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door. 'Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door. Ah! dolorous day and drear! Ah! woe is me! Would God I were no more! My purchase was so dear! Ah! why that day did I to watch give o'er? For him my cherished fere With marjoram I bordered it about. With marjoram I bordered it about In May-time fresh and fair, And watered it thrice ere each week was out, And marked it grow full yare: But now 'tis stolen. Ah! too well 'tis known!(1)