ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL; A STORY, FROM BOCCACCIO. I. FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel! Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by ; They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, But to each other dream, and nightly weep. II. With every morn their love grew tenderer, To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; III. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, IV. A whole long month of May in this sad plight Made their cheeks paler by the break of June: "To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 66 To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon." O may I never see another night, Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune."So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, Honeyless days and days did he let pass; V. Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, And at the least 'twill startle off her cares." |