Service I took with thee, a tender maid, In thy war thinking perfect peace to find, And all my arms upon the ground I laid, Yielding myself to thee with trustful mind: Thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind, Eftsoons didst swoop on me, And with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy prey. Then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain, Thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did call Hither my death to be; for that in pain And bitter tears I waste away, his thrall: Nor heave I e'er a sigh, or tear let fall, So harsh a lord is he, That him inclines a jot my grief to allay. My prayers upon the idle air are spent: He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain The more each hour my soul doth her torment; Nor may I die, albeit to die were gain. Ah! Lord, have pity of my bitter pain! Help have I none but thee; Then take and bind and at my feet him lay. But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose From hope, that her still binds with triple chain. Sure, O my Lord, this prayer thou'lt not refuse: The which so thou to grant me do but deign, I look my wonted beauty to regain, And banish misery With roses white and red bedecked and gay. So with a most piteous sigh ended Elisa her song, whereat all wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang. But the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for Tindaro, and bade him out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto, until, no small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to betake them to rest. -- Endeth here the sixth day of the Decameron, beginneth the seventh, in which, under the rule of Dioneo, discourse is had of the tricks which, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected, or no. --