A chantar m’er de so qu’eu no volria Tant me rancur de lui cui sui amia; Car eu l’am mais que nuilla ren que sia: Vas lui nom val merces ni cortezia, Ni ma beltatz ni mos pretz ni mos sens; C’atressim sui enganad’ e trahia Com degr’esser, s’eu fos dezavinens. Meraveill me cum vostre cors s’argoilla Amics vas me per qu’ai razon quem doilla. Non es ges dreitz c’autr’amors vos mi toilla, Per nuilla ren queus diga nius acoilla. E membre vos cals fol comensamens De nostr’amor; ja dompnedeus non voilla Qu’en ma colpa sial departimens. Proeza grans, qu’el vostre cors s’aizina, E lo rics pretz qu’avetz m’en ataina. C’una non sai, loindana ni vezina, Si vol amar vas vos no si’ aclina: Mas vos, amics es ben tant conoissens, Que ben devetz conoisser la plus fina; E membre vos de nostres partimens. _Translation._ It is in vain, this silence I must break; The fault of him I love moves me to speak. Dearer than all the world he is to me; But he regards not love nor courtesy, Nor wisdom, nor my worth, nor all my beauty— He has deceived me. Such my fate should be, If I had failed to him in loving duty. Oh, strange and past belief that in disdain Your heart, oh friend, should look upon my pain; That now another love should conquer you, For all that I may say, that I may do! Have you forgotten the sweet first communion Of our two hearts? Now sorely would I rue If by my guilt were caused this last disunion. The noble worth, the valour you possess, Your fame and beauty add to my distress. For far and near the noble ladies all, If love can move them, listen to your call. But you, my friend, whose soul is keenest-sighted, Must know who loves you, and is true withal. And ah! remember now the troth we plighted. The reader need hardly be told that this touching appeal proved in vain. We have another song of Beatrice, in which she deplores the final loss of her friend. It is remarkable that even now no word of anger escapes her lips. She blames herself for a reticence of feeling which, if she had possessed it, might have averted her fate. This is the first stanza of the plaintive ditty: Ah, sadly, sadly do I miss A knight of valour once mine own! To all at all times be it known, My heart was his—was only his. Foolishly my secret keeping, I hid my love when he was near; But in my heart I held him dear, Day and night, awake and sleeping. And here we must take leave of the beautiful Beatrice de Die. She is not without interest from a psychological point of view, and represents the literary capabilities of her class by the intensely subjective character of her work, which is the immediate outgrowth of her feeling. CHAPTER XXVII. THE COURTS OF LOVE.