So great, O Love, the bliss Through thee I prove, so jocund my estate, That in thy flame to burn I bless my fate! Such plenitude of joy my heart doth know Of that high joy and rare, Wherewith thou hast me blest, As, bounds disdaining, still doth overflow, And by my radiant air My blitheness manifest; For by thee thus possessed With love, where meeter 'twere to venerate, I still consume within thy flame elate. Well wot I, Love, no song may e'er reveal, Nor any sign declare What in my heart is pent Nay, might they so, that were I best conceal, Whereof were others ware, 'Twould serve but to torment Me, whose is such content, That weak were words and all inadequate A tittle of my bliss to adumbrate. Who would have dreamed that e'er in mine embrace Her I should clip and fold Whom there I still do feel, Or as 'gainst her face e'er to lay my face Attain such grace untold, And unimagined weal? Wherefore my bliss I seal Of mine own heart within the circuit strait, And still in thy sweet flame luxuriate. So ended Pamfilo his song: whereto all the company responded in full chorus; nor was there any but gave to its words an inordinate degree of attention, endeavouring by conjecture to penetrate that which he intimated that 'twas meet he should keep secret. Divers were the interpretations hazarded, but all were wide of the mark. At length, however, the queen, seeing that ladies and men alike were fain of rest, bade all betake them to bed. -- Endeth here the eighth day of the Decameron, beginneth the ninth, in which, under the rule of Emilia, discourse is had, at the discretion of each, of such matters as most commend themselves to each in turn. --