Deep, torture is but galzeardy and dance,

For in my thought my lust hath touched his aim.

God! Shall I get no more! No fact to best it!

No delight I, from now, in dance or sport,

Nor will these toys a tinkle of pleasure prove,

Compared to her, whom no loud profligate

Shall leak abroad how much she makes my right.

Is this too much? If she count not mischance

What I have said, then no. But if she blame,

Then tear ye out the tongue that hath expresst it.

The song begs you: Count not this speech ill chance,

But if you count the song worth your acclaim,

Arnaut cares lyt who praise or who contest it.

(Arnaut Daniel, a. d. about 1190.)

MOEURS CONTEMPORAINES

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Mr. Styrax

MR. HECATOMB STYRAX, the owner of a large estate

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