day of
execution a noble lady was seized with a desire to save this
courageous man, whom she believed to be a lover of the right sort. She
begged the king to give him to her, which he did willingly. But
Cappara declaring that he belonged entirely to his lady, the memory of
whom he could not banish entirely, entered the Church, became a
cardinal and a great savant, and used to say in his old age that he
had existed upon the remembrance of the joys tasted in those poor
hours of anguish; in which he was, at the same time, both very well
and very badly treated by his lady. There are authors saying
afterwards he succeeded better with his old sweetheart, whose cheek
healed; but I cannot believe this, because he was a man of heart, who
had a high opinion of the holy joys of love.

This teaches us nothing worth knowing, unless it be that there are
unlucky meetings in life, since this tale is in every way true. If in
other places the author has overshot the truth, this one will gain for
him the indulgence of the conclave or lovers.

EPILOGUE

This second series comes in the merry month of June, when all is green
and gay, because the poor muse, whose slave the author is, has been
more capricious then the love of a queen, and has mysteriously wished
to bring forth her fruit in the time of flowers. No one can boast
himself master of this fay. At times, when grave thoughts occupy the
mind and grieve the brain, comes the jade whispering her merry tales
in the author's ear, tickling her lips with her feathers, dancing
sarabands, and making the house echo with her laughter. If by chance
the writer, abandoning science for pleasure, says to her, "Wait a
moment, little one, till I come," and runs in great haste to play with
the madcap, she has disappeared. She has gone into her hole, hides
herself there, rolls herself up, and retires. Take the poker, take a
staff, a cudgel, a cane, raise them, strike the wench, and rave at
her, she moans; strap her, she moans; caress her, fondle her, she
moans; kiss her, say to her, "Here, little one," she moans. Now she's
cold, now she is going to die; adieu to love, adieu to laughter, adieu
to merriment, adieu to good stories. Wear mourning for her, weep and
fancy her dead, groan. Then she raises her head, her merry laugh rings
out again; she spreads her white wings, flies one knows not wither,
turns in the air, capers, shows her impish tail, her woman's breasts,
h