| 38. 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 | 5 |
| 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, | |
| With every eve deeper and tenderer still; | 10 |
| He might not in house, field, or garden stir, | |
| But her full shape would all his seeing fill; | |
| And his continual voice was pleasanter | |
| To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; | |
| Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, | 15 |
| She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. | |
III. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, | |
| Before the door had given her to his eyes; | |
| And from her chamber-window he would catch | |
| Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; | 20 |
| And constant as her vespers would he watch, | |
| Because her face was turn’d to the same skies; | |
| And with sick longing all the night outwear, | |
| To hear her morning-step upon the stair. | |
IV. A whole long month of May in this sad plight | 25 |
| Made their cheeks paler by the break of June: | |
| “To morrow will I bow to my delight, | |
| “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.”— | 30 |
| So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, | |
| Honeyless days and days did he let pass; | |
V. Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek | |
| Fell sick within the rose’s just domain, | |
| Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek | 35 |
| By every lull to cool her infant’s pain: | |
| “How ill she is,” said he, “I may not speak, | |
| “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.” | 40 |
VI. So said he one fair morning, and all day | |
| His heart beat awfully against his side; | |
| And to his heart he inwardly did pray | |
| For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide | |
| Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away— | 45 |
| Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride, | |
| Yet brought him to the meekness of a child: | |
| Alas! when passion is both meek and wild! | |
VII. So once more he had wak’d and anguished | |
| A dreary night of love and misery, | 50 |
| If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed | |
| To every symbol on his forehead high; | |
| She saw it waxing very pale and dead, | |
| And straight all flush’d; so, lisped tenderly, | |
| “Lorenzo!”—here she ceas’d her timid quest, | 55 |
| But in her tone and look he read the rest. | |
VIII. “O Isabella, I can half perceive | |
| “That I may speak my grief into thine ear; | |
| “If thou didst ever any thing believe, | |
| “Believe how I love thee, believe how near | 60 |
| “My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve | |
| “Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear | |
| “Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live | |
| “Another night, and not my passion shrive. | |
IX. “Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold, | 65 |
| “Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime, | |
| “And I must taste the blossoms that unfold | |
| “In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.” | |
| So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, | |
| And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: | 70 |
| Great bliss was with them, and great happiness | |
| Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress. | |
X. Parting they seem’d to tread upon the air, | |
| Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart | |
| Only to meet again more close, and share | 75 |
| The inward fragrance of each other’s heart. | |
| She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair | |
| Sang, of delicious love and honey’d dart; | |
| He with light steps went up a western hill, | |
| And bade the sun farewell, and joy’d his fill. | 80 |
XI. All close they met again, before the dusk | |
| Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, | |
| All close they met, all eves, before the dusk | |
| Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, | |
| Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, | 85 |
| Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. | |
| Ah! better had it been for ever so, | |
| Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. | |
XII. Were they unhappy then?—It cannot be— | |
| Too many tears for lovers have been shed, | 90 |
| Too many sighs give we to them in fee, | |
| Too much of pity after they are dead, | |
| Too many doleful stories do we see, | |
| Whose matter in bright gold were best be read; | |
| Except in such a page where Theseus’ spouse | 95 |
| Over the pathless waves towards him bows. | |
XIII. But, for the general award of love, | |
| The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; | |
| Though Dido silent is in under-grove, | |
| And Isabella’s was a great distress, | 100 |
| Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove | |
| Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less— | |
| Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, | |
| Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. | |
XIV. With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, | 105 |
| Enriched from ancestral merchandize, | |
| And for them many a weary hand did swelt | |
| In torched mines and noisy factories, | |
| And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt | |
| In blood from stinging whip;—with hollow eyes | 110 |
| Many all day in dazzling river stood, | |
| To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. | |
XV. For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, | |
| And went all naked to the hungry shark; | |
| For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death | 115 |
| The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark | |
| Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe | |
| A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: | |
| Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel, | |
| That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. | 120 |
XVI. Why were they proud? Because their marble founts | |
| Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?— | |
| Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts | |
| Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?— | |
| Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts | 125 |
| Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?— | |
| Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, | |
| Why in the name of Glory were they proud? | |
XVII. Yet were these Florentines as self-retired | |
| In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, | 130 |
| As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, | |
| Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies, | |
| The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired | |
| And pannier’d mules for ducats and old lies— | |
| Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away,— | 135 |
| Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. | |
XVIII. How was it these same ledger-men could spy | |
| Fair Isabella in her downy nest? | |
| How could they find out in Lorenzo’s eye | |
| A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt’s pest | 140 |
| Into their vision covetous and sly! | |
| How could these money-bags see east and west?— | |
| Yet so they did—and every dealer fair | |
| Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. | |
XIX. O eloquent and famed Boccaccio! | 145 |
| Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, | |
| And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, | |
| And of thy roses amorous of the moon, | |
| And of thy lilies, that do paler grow | |
| Now they can no more hear thy ghittern’s tune, | 150 |
| For venturing syllables that ill beseem | |
| The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. | |
XX. Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale | |
| Shall move on soberly, as it is meet; | |
| There is no other crime, no mad assail | 155 |
| To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet: | |
| But it is done—succeed the verse or fail— | |
| To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet; | |
| To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, | |
| An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. | 160 |
XXI. These brethren having found by many signs | |
| What love Lorenzo for their sister had, | |
| And how she lov’d him too, each unconfines | |
| His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad | |
| That he, the servant of their trade designs, | 165 |
| Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad, | |
| When ’twas their plan to coax her by degrees | |
| To some high noble and his olive-trees. | |
XXII. And many a jealous conference had they, | |
| And many times they bit their lips alone, | 170 |
| Before they fix’d upon a surest way | |
| To make the youngster for his crime atone; | |
| And at the last, these men of cruel clay | |
| Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone; | |
| For they resolved in some forest dim | 175 |
| To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. | |
XXIII. So on a pleasant morning, as he leant | |
| Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade | |
| Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent | |
| Their footing through the dews; and to him said, | 180 |
| “You seem there in the quiet of content, | |
| “Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade | |
| “Calm speculation; but if you are wise, | |
| “Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. | |
XXIV. “To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount | 185 |
| “To spur three leagues towards the Apennine; | |
| “Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count | |
| “His dewy rosary on the eglantine.” | |
| Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, | |
| Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine; | 190 |
| And went in haste, to get in readiness, | |
| With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress. | |
XXV. And as he to the court-yard pass’d along, | |
| Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft | |
| If he could hear his lady’s matin-song, | 195 |
| Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; | |
| And as he thus over his passion hung, | |
| He heard a laugh full musical aloft; | |
| When, looking up, he saw her features bright | |
| Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. | 200 |
XXVI. “Love, Isabel!” said he, “I was in pain | |
| “Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow: | |
| “Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain | |
| “I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow | |
| “Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain | 205 |
| “Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. | |
| “Good bye! I’ll soon be back.”—“Good bye!” said she:— | |
| And as he went she chanted merrily. | |
XXVII. So the two brothers and their murder’d man | |
| Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream | 210 |
| Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan | |
| Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream | |
| Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan | |
| The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem, | |
| Lorenzo’s flush with love.—They pass’d the water | 215 |
| Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. | |
XXVIII. There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, | |
| There in that forest did his great love cease; | |
| Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, | |
| It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace | 220 |
| As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin: | |
| They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease | |
| Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, | |
| Each richer by his being a murderer. | |
XXIX. They told their sister how, with sudden speed, | 225 |
| Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands, | |
| Because of some great urgency and need | |
| In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. | |
| Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed, | |
| And ’scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands; | 230 |
| To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, | |
| And the next day will be a day of sorrow. | |
XXX. She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; | |
| Sorely she wept until the night came on, | |
| And then, instead of love, O misery! | 235 |
| She brooded o’er the luxury alone: | |
| His image in the dusk she seem’d to see, | |
| And to the silence made a gentle moan, | |
| Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, | |
| And on her couch low murmuring, “Where? O where?” | 240 |
XXXI. But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long | |
| Its fiery vigil in her single breast; | |
| She fretted for the golden hour, and hung | |
| Upon the time with feverish unrest— | |
| Not long—for soon into her heart a throng | 245 |
| Of higher occupants, a richer zest, | |
| Came tragic; passion not to be subdued, | |
| And sorrow for her love in travels rude. | |
XXXII. In the mid days of autumn, on their eves | |
| The breath of Winter comes from far away, | 250 |
| And the sick west continually bereaves | |
| Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay | |
| Of death among the bushes and the leaves, | |
| To make all bare before he dares to stray | |
| From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel | 255 |
| By gradual decay from beauty fell, | |
XXXIII. Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes | |
| She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale, | |
| Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes | |
| Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale | 260 |
| Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes | |
| Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale; | |
| And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud, | |
| To see their sister in her snowy shroud. | |
XXXIV. And she had died in drowsy ignorance, | 265 |
| But for a thing more deadly dark than all; | |
| It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, | |
| Which saves a sick man from the feather’d pall | |
| For some few gasping moments; like a lance, | |
| Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall | 270 |
| With cruel pierce, and bringing him again | |
| Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. | |
XXXV. It was a vision.—In the drowsy gloom, | |
| The dull of midnight, at her couch’s foot | |
| Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb | 275 |
| Had marr’d his glossy hair which once could shoot | |
| Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom | |
| Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute | |
| From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears | |
| Had made a miry channel for his tears. | 280 |
XXXVI. Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake; | |
| For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, | |
| To speak as when on earth it was awake, | |
| And Isabella on its music hung: | |
| Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, | 285 |
| As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung; | |
| And through it moan’d a ghostly under-song, | |
| Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among. | |
XXXVII. Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright | |
| With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof | 290 |
| From the poor girl by magic of their light, | |
| The while it did unthread the horrid woof | |
| Of the late darken’d time,—the murderous spite | |
| Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof | |
| In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell, | 295 |
| Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. | |
XXXVIII. Saying moreover, “Isabel, my sweet! | |
| “Red whortle-berries droop above my head, | |
| “And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet; | |
| “Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed | 300 |
| “Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat | |
| “Comes from beyond the river to my bed: | |
| “Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, | |
| “And it shall comfort me within the tomb. | |
XXXIX. “I am a shadow now, alas! alas! | 305 |
| “Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling | |
| “Alone: I chant alone the holy mass, | |
| “While little sounds of life are round me knelling, | |
| “And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, | |
| “And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, | 310 |
| “Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me, | |
| “And thou art distant in Humanity. | |
XL. “I know what was, I feel full well what is, | |
| “And I should rage, if spirits could go mad; | |
| “Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, | 315 |
| “That paleness warms my grave, as though I had | |
| “A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss | |
| “To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad; | |
| “Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel | |
| “A greater love through all my essence steal.” | 320 |
XLI. The Spirit mourn’d “Adieu!”—dissolv’d, and left | |
| The atom darkness in a slow turmoil; | |
| As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, | |
| Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, | |
| We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, | 325 |
| And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil: | |
| It made sad Isabella’s eyelids ache, | |
| And in the dawn she started up awake; | |
XLII. “Ha! ha!” said she, “I knew not this hard life, | |
| “I thought the worst was simple misery; | 330 |
| “I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife | |
| “Portion’d us—happy days, or else to die; | |
| “But there is crime—a brother’s bloody knife! | |
| “Sweet Spirit, thou hast school’d my infancy: | |
| “I’ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, | 335 |
| “And greet thee morn and even in the skies.” | |
XLIII. When the full morning came, she had devised | |
| How she might secret to the forest hie; | |
| How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, | |
| And sing to it one latest lullaby; | 340 |
| How her short absence might be unsurmised, | |
| While she the inmost of the dream would try. | |
| Resolv’d, she took with her an aged nurse, | |
| And went into that dismal forest-hearse. | |
XLIV. See, as they creep along the river side, | 345 |
| How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, | |
| And, after looking round the champaign wide, | |
| Shows her a knife.—“What feverous hectic flame | |
| “Burns in thee, child?—What good can thee betide, | |
| “That thou should’st smile again?”—The evening came, | 350 |
| And they had found Lorenzo’s earthy bed; | |
| The flint was there, the berries at his head. | |
XLV. Who hath not loiter’d in a green church-yard, | |
| And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, | |
| Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, | 355 |
| To see skull, coffin’d bones, and funeral stole; | |
| Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr’d, | |
| And filling it once more with human soul? | |
| Ah! this is holiday to what was felt | |
| When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. | 360 |
XLVI. She gaz’d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though | |
| One glance did fully all its secrets tell; | |
| Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know | |
| Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well; | |
| Upon the murderous spot she seem’d to grow, | 365 |
| Like to a native lily of the dell: | |
| Then with her knife, all sudden, she began | |
| To dig more fervently than misers can. | |
XLVII. Soon she turn’d up a soiled glove, whereon | |
| Her silk had play’d in purple phantasies, | 370 |
| She kiss’d it with a lip more chill than stone, | |
| And put it in her bosom, where it dries | |
| And freezes utterly unto the bone | |
| Those dainties made to still an infant’s cries: | |
| Then ’gan she work again; nor stay’d her care, | 375 |
| But to throw back at times her veiling hair. | |
XLVIII. That old nurse stood beside her wondering, | |
| Until her heart felt pity to the core | |
| At sight of such a dismal labouring, | |
| And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, | 380 |
| And put her lean hands to the horrid thing: | |
| Three hours they labour’d at this travail sore; | |
| At last they felt the kernel of the grave, | |
| And Isabella did not stamp and rave. | |
XLIX. Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? | 385 |
| Why linger at the yawning tomb so long? | |
| O for the gentleness of old Romance, | |
| The simple plaining of a minstrel’s song! | |
| Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, | |
| For here, in truth, it doth not well belong | 390 |
| To speak:—O turn thee to the very tale, | |
| And taste the music of that vision pale. | |
L. With duller steel than the Persèan sword | |
| They cut away no formless monster’s head, | |
| But one, whose gentleness did well accord | 395 |
| With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, | |
| Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord: | |
| If Love impersonate was ever dead, | |
| Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d. | |
| ’Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned. | 400 |
LI. In anxious secrecy they took it home, | |
| And then the prize was all for Isabel: | |
| She calm’d its wild hair with a golden comb, | |
| And all around each eye’s sepulchral cell | |
| Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam | 405 |
| With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, | |
| She drench’d away:—and still she comb’d, and kept | |
| Sighing all day—and still she kiss’d, and wept. | |
LII. Then in a silken scarf,—sweet with the dews | |
| Of precious flowers pluck’d in Araby, | 410 |
| And divine liquids come with odorous ooze | |
| Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully,— | |
| She wrapp’d it up; and for its tomb did choose | |
| A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, | |
| And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set | 415 |
| Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. | |
LIII. And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, | |
| And she forgot the blue above the trees, | |
| And she forgot the dells where waters run, | |
| And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; | 420 |
| She had no knowledge when the day was done, | |
| And the new morn she saw not: but in peace | |
| Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, | |
| And moisten’d it with tears unto the core. | |
LIV. And so she ever fed it with thin tears, | 425 |
| Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, | |
| So that it smelt more balmy than its peers | |
| Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew | |
| Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, | |
| From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: | 430 |
| So that the jewel, safely casketed, | |
| Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. | |
LV. O Melancholy, linger here awhile! | |
| O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! | |
| O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, | 435 |
| Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh! | |
| Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; | |
| Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, | |
| And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, | |
| Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. | 440 |
LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, | |
| From the deep throat of sad Melpomene! | |
| Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, | |
| And touch the strings into a mystery; | |
| Sound mournfully upon the winds and low; | 445 |
| For simple Isabel is soon to be | |
| Among the dead: She withers, like a palm | |
| Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. | |
LVII. O leave the palm to wither by itself; | |
| Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!— | 450 |
| It may not be—those Baalites of pelf, | |
| Her brethren, noted the continual shower | |
| From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, | |
| Among her kindred, wonder’d that such dower | |
| Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside | 455 |
| By one mark’d out to be a Noble’s bride. | |
LVIII. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder’d much | |
| Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, | |
| And why it flourish’d, as by magic touch; | |
| Greatly they wonder’d what the thing might mean: | 460 |
| They could not surely give belief, that such | |
| A very nothing would have power to wean | |
| Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, | |
| And even remembrance of her love’s delay. | |
LIX. Therefore they watch’d a time when they might sift | 465 |
| This hidden whim; and long they watch’d in vain; | |
| For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, | |
| And seldom felt she any hunger-pain; | |
| And when she left, she hurried back, as swift | |
| As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; | 470 |
| And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there | |
| Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. | |
LX. Yet they contriv’d to steal the Basil-pot, | |
| And to examine it in secret place: | |
| The thing was vile with green and livid spot, | 475 |
| And yet they knew it was Lorenzo’s face: | |
| The guerdon of their murder they had got, | |
| And so left Florence in a moment’s space, | |
| Never to turn again.—Away they went, | |
| With blood upon their heads, to banishment. | 480 |
LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! | |
| O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! | |
| O Echo, Echo, on some other day, | |
| From isles Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh! | |
| Spirits of grief, sing not your “Well-a-way!” | 485 |
| For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; | |
| Will die a death too lone and incomplete, | |
| Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet. | |
LXII. Piteous she look’d on dead and senseless things, | |
| Asking for her lost Basil amorously: | 490 |
| And with melodious chuckle in the strings | |
| Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry | |
| After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, | |
| To ask him where her Basil was; and why | |
| ’Twas hid from her: “For cruel ’tis,” said she, | 495 |
| “To steal my Basil-pot away from me.” | |
LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, | |
| Imploring for her Basil to the last. | |
| No heart was there in Florence but did mourn | |
| In pity of her love, so overcast. | 500 |
| And a sad ditty of this story born | |
| From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d: | |
| Still is the burthen sung—“O cruelty, | |
| “To steal my Basil-pot away from me!” |
, a stylized arrow. Sagittarius is commonly represented as a