w lady love?

"Sooth to say, Margery, my confessor, to whom--albeit with bitter
pains--I am laying open every fold of my heart--yes, Margery, if Ann's
cradle had been graced with a coat of arms matters would be otherwise.
But to call a copper-smith father-in-law, and little Henneleinlein
Madame Aunt! In church, to nod from the old seats of the Schoppers to
all those common folk as my nearest kin, to meet the lute-player among
my own people, teaching the lads and maids their music, and to greet him
as dear grandfather, to see my brethren and sisters-in-law busy in the
clerks' chambers or work-shops--all this I say is bitter to the taste;
and yet more when the tempter on the other side shows the gaudy young
gentleman the very joys dearest to his courtly spirit. And with what
eloquence and good cheer has Father Ignatius set all this before mine
eyes here in Paris, doubtless with honest intent; and he spoke to my
heart soberly and to edification, setting forth all that the precepts of
the Lord, and my old and noble family required of me.

"Much less than all this would have overruled so feeble a wight as I am.
I promised Father Ignatius to give up Ann, and, on my home-coming, to
submit in all things to my uncle and to agree with him as to what each
should yield up and renounce to the other--as though it were a matter of
merchandise in spices from the Levant, or silk kerchiefs from Florence;
and thereupon the holy Friar gave me his benediction, as though my
salvation were henceforth sure in this world and the next.

"I rode forth with him even to the gate, firm in the belief that I had
thrown the winning number in life's game; but scarce had I turned my
horse homeward when I wist that I had cast from me all the peace and joy
of my soul.

"It is done. I have denied Ann--given her up forever--and whereas she
must one day hear it, be it done at once. You, my poor Margery, I make
my messenger. I have tried, in truth, to write to Ann, but it would not
do. One thing you must say, and that is that, even when I have sinned
most against her, I have never forgotten her; nay, that the memory of
that happy time when she was fain to call herself my Laura moved me to
ride forth to Treviso, where, in the chapel of the Franciscan Brethren,
there may be seen a head of the true Laura done by the limner Simone di
Martino, the friend of Petrarca, a right worthy work of art. Methought
she drew me to her with voice and becks. And yet, and yet-