Fly like the god, fair maid, to worship thee!"

Albeit I suffered him to recite these lines to the end I turned from him
with a countenance of great wrath, and tore the paper whereon they were
writ in two halves which I flung behind the stove. Nor did I put away my
angry and offended mien until he had right humbly besought my
forgiveness. Yet when I had granted it, and he presently quitted the
chamber, I did, I confess, gather up the torn paper and bestow it in my
girdle-poke. Nay, meseems that I had of intent rent it only in twain, to
the end that I might the better join it again. Thus to this day it lieth
in my chest, with other relics of the past; yet I verily believe that
another Sonnet, which Sir Giacomo found on the morrow, laid on his easel,
was not so treasured by him. It was thus:

"There was one Hans, and he was fain to try,
Like to Olympian Jove, the magic arts
Of witchcraft upon some well-favored maid.
Bold the adventure, but the prize how sweet!
'Farewell, good wife,' quoth he, 'Or e'er the dawn
Hath broke I must be forward on my way.
Like Jupiter I will be blessed and bless
With love; and in the image of a swan.'

"The magic spell hath changed him. With a wreath
About his head he deems he lacketh nought
Of what may best beguile a maiden's soul.

"Thus to fair Leda flies the hapless wight.--
With boisterous mirth the dame beholds the bird.
'A right fine goose! Thou'lt make a goodly roast.'"

Howbeit Giacomo would not leave this verse without reply; and to this
day, if you look close into the picture, you may see a goose's head deep
in shade among the shrubs in the back part of it, but clearly to be
discerned.

Notwithstanding many such little quarrels we liked each other well, and I
may here note that when, in the following year, which was the year of our
Lord one thousand four hundred and twenty-six, a little son was born to
him, since grown to be a right famous painter, known as
Giambellini--which is to say Giovanni, or Hans, Bellini, I, Margery
Schopper, stood his sponsor at the font. Yea and I was ever a true godsib
to him, and that painter might indeed thank my kith and kin when he was
charged with a certain office in the Fondaco in Venice, which is worth
some hundreds of ducats yearly to him, to this day.

Thus were the portraits ended, and when I behold my own looking from the
wide frame with so mirthful and yet so