superstition, and devoted herself to her husband and her family in a very different way from what she had done before. "Here you may see, ladies, the good sense of the husband, and the weakness of one who was regarded as a woman of strict propriety. If you attend well to this example, I am persuaded that, instead of relying on your own strength, you will learn to turn to Him on whom your honor depends." "I am very glad," said Parlamente, "that you are become the ladies' preacher; you would be so with better right if you would address the same sermons to all those you hold discourse with." "Whenever you please to hear me," he replied, “I assure you I will speak the same language to you." "That is to say," observed Simontault, "that when you are not by he will talk to a different purpose." "He will do as he pleases," said Parlamente, "but, for my own satisfaction, I would have him always speak thus. The example he has adduced will at least be of service to those women who think that spiritual love is not dangerous; but to me it seems that it is more so than any other." "I cannot think, however," remarked Oisille, "that one should scorn to love a man who is virtuous and fears God; for, in my opinion, one cannot but be the better for it." "I pray you to believe, madam," rejoined Parlamente, "that nothing can be more simple-willed and easy to deceive than a woman who has never loved; for love is a passion which takes possession of the heart before one is aware of it. Besides, this passion is so pleasing that, provided one can wrap one's self up in virtue as in a cloak, it will be scarcely known before some mischief will come of it." "What mischief can come of loving a good man?" said Oisille. "There are plenty, madam," replied Parlamente, "who pass for good men as far as ladies are concerned; but there are few who are so truly good before God that one may love them without any risk of honor or conscience. I do not believe that there is one such man living. Those who are of a different opinion, and trust in it, become its dupes. They begin this sort of tender intimacy with God, and often end it with the devil. I have seen many a one who, under color of talking about divine things, began an intimacy which at last they wished to break off, but could not, so fast were they held by the fine cloak with which it was covered. A vicious love perishes and has no long abode in a good heart; but decorous love has bonds of silk so fine and delicate that one is caught in them before one perceives them." "According to your views, then," said Ennasuite, "no woman ought ever to love a man. Your law is too violent; it will not last." "I know that," replied Parlamente; "but for all that, it is desirable that every woman should be content with her own husband, as I am with mine." A TRIO OF FRENCH RENAISSANCE POETS. (Translations by Andrew Lang.) JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555. SHADOWS OF HIS LADY. WITHIN the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? What Parian marble that is loveliest, Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be MOONLIGHT. The high Midnight was garlanding her head A thin shrill clamor of complaints and cries; Then came my lady to that lonely place, Since night has made me such a happy lover. JOACHIM DU BELLAY, 1550. HYMN TO THE WINDS. The Winds are invoked by the Winnowers of Corn. A Vow To HEAVENLY VENUS. We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain, Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is April, pride of fields that be Green and free, That in fashion glad and gay Stud with flowers red and blue, Every hue, Their jeweled spring array. April, pride of murmuring That beneath the winnowed air Trap with subtle nets and sweet Flora's feet, Flora's feet, the fleet and fair. April, by thy hand caressed, From her breast Nature scatters everywhere Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, Buds and blooms, Making faint the earth and air. April, joy of the green hours, Over all her locks of gold My sweet Lady; and her breast With the blest Buds of summer manifold. April, with thy gracious wiles, Smiles of Venus; and thy breath Like her breath, the gods' delight, (From their height They take the happy air beneath). It is thou that, of thy grace, In the far-off isles dost bring Glad to be Messengers of thee, and Spring. Daffodil and eglantine, And woodbine, |