hills, fanned them, and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully and joyously they supped.  The tables removed, they roved a while about the pleasant vale, and then, the sun being still high, for ’twas but half vespers, the queen gave the word, and they wended their way back to their wonted abode, and going slowly, and beguiling the way with quips and quirks without number upon divers matters, nor those alone of which they had that day discoursed, they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at the goodly palace.  There, the short walk’s fatigue dispelled by wines most cool and comfits, they presently gathered for the dance about the fair fountain, and now they footed it to the strains of Tindaro’s cornemuse, and now to other music.  Which done, the queen bade Filomena give them a song; and thus Filomena sang:—­

Ah! woe is me, my soul! 
  Ah! shall I ever thither fare again
  Whence I was parted to my grievous dole?

Full sure I know not; but within my breast
  Throbs ever the same fire
  Of yearning there where erst I was to be. 
  O thou in whom is all my weal, my rest,
  Lord of my heart’s desire,
  Ah! tell me thou! for none to ask save thee
  Neither dare I, nor see. 
  Ah! dear my Lord, this wasted heart disdain
  Thou wilt not, but with hope at length console.

Kindled the flame I know not what delight,
  Which me doth so devour,
  That day and night alike I find no ease;
  For whether it was by hearing, touch, or sight,
  Unwonted was the power,
  And fresh the fire that me each way did seize;
  Wherein without release
  I languish still, and of thee, Lord, am fain,
  For thou alone canst comfort and make whole.

Ah! tell me if it shall be, and how soon,
  That I again thee meet
  Where those death-dealing eyes I kissed.  Thou, chief
  Weal of my soul, my very soul, this boon
  Deny not; say that fleet
  Thou hiest hither:  comfort thus my grief. 
  Ah! let the time be brief
  Till thou art here, and then long time remain;
  For I, Love-stricken, crave but Love’s control.

Let me but once again mine own thee call,
  No more so indiscreet
  As erst, I’ll be, to let thee from me part: 
  Nay, I’ll still hold thee, let what may befall,
  And of thy mouth so sweet
  Such solace take as may content my heart
  So this be all my art,
  Thee to entice, me with thine arms to enchain: 
  Whereon but musing inly chants my soul.

This song set all the company conjecturing what new and delightsome love might now hold Filomena in its sway; and as its words imported that she had had more joyance thereof than sight alone might yield, some that were there grew envious of her excess of happiness.  However, the song being ended, the queen, bethinking her that the morrow was Friday, thus graciously addressed them all:—­“Ye wot, noble ladies, and ye also, my gallants, that to-morrow is the day that