where they had left them.  To whom quoth Pampinea with a smile:—­“We have stolen a march upon you to-day.”  “So,” replied Dioneo, “’tis with you do first and say after?” “Ay, my lord,” returned Pampinea, and told him at large whence they came, and what the place was like, and how far ’twas off, and what they had done.  What she said of the beauty of the spot begat in the king a desire to see it:  wherefore he straightway ordered supper, whereof when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted from the ladies and hied them with their servants to the vale, where none of them had ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties, extolled it as scarce to be matched in all the world.  Then, as the hour was very late, they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their clothes, returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to an air that Fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the Ladies’ Vale, waxing eloquent in praise thereof:  insomuch that the king called the seneschal, and bade him have some beds made ready and carried thither on the morrow, that any that were so minded might there take their siesta.  He then had lights and wine and comfits brought; and when they had taken a slight refection, he bade all address them to the dance.  So at his behest Pamfilo led a dance, and then the king, turning with gracious mien to Elisa:—­“Fair damsel,” quoth he, “’twas thou to-day didst me this honour of the crown; and ’tis my will that thine to-night be the honour of the song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief.”  “That gladly will I,” replied Elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet voice began:—­

If of thy talons, Love, be quit I may,
  I deem it scarce can be
  But other fangs I may elude for aye.

Service I took with thee, a tender maid,
  In thy war thinking perfect peace to find,
  And all my arms upon the ground I laid,
  Yielding myself to thee with trustful mind: 
  Thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind,
  Eftsoons didst swoop on me,
  And with thy cruel claws mad’st me thy prey.

Then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain,
  Thou tookst, and gav’st to him, whom fate did call
  Hither my death to be; for that in pain
  And bitter tears I waste away, his thrall: 
  Nor heave I e’er a sigh, or tear let fall,
  So harsh a lord is he,
  That him inclines a jot my grief to allay.

My prayers upon the idle air are spent: 
  He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain
  The more each hour my soul doth her torment;
  Nor may I die, albeit to die were gain. 
  Ah!  Lord, have pity of my bitter pain! 
  Help have I none but thee;
  Then take and bind and at my feet him lay.

But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose
  From hope, that her still binds with triple chain. 
  Sure, O my Lord, this prayer thou’lt not refuse: 
  The which so thou to grant me do but deign,
  I look my wonted beauty to regain,
  And banish misery
  With roses white and red bedecked and gay.