The vengeance of an Italian reveals itself in the energetic song which
I quote next (p. 303):—­

  I have a sword; ’twould cut a brazen bell,
  Tough steel ’twould cut, if there were any need: 
  I’ve had it tempered in the streams of hell
  By masters mighty in the mystic rede: 
  I’ve had it tempered by the light of stars;
  Then let him come whose skin is stout as Mars;
  I’ve had it tempered to a trenchant blade;
  Then let him come who stole from me my maid.

More mild, but brimful of the bitterness of a soul to whom the whole world has become but ashes in the death of love, is the following lament (p. 143):—­

  Call me the lovely Golden Locks no more,
  But call me Sad Maid of the golden hair. 
  If there be wretched women, sure I think
  I too may rank among the most forlorn. 
  I fling a palm into the sea; ’twill sink: 
  Others throw lead, and it is lightly borne. 
  What have I done, dear Lord, the world to cross? 
  Gold in my hand forthwith is turned to dross. 
  How have I made, dear Lord, dame Fortune wroth? 
  Gold in my hand forthwith is turned to froth. 
  What have I done, dear Lord, to fret the folk? 
  Gold in my hand forthwith is turned to smoke.

Here is pathos (p. 172):—­

  The wood-dove who hath lost her mate,
  She lives a dolorous life, I ween;
  She seeks a stream and bathes in it,
  And drinks that water foul and green: 
  With other birds she will not mate,
  Nor haunt, I wis, the flowery treen;
  She bathes her wings and strikes her breast;
  Her mate is lost:  oh, sore unrest!

And here is fanciful despair (p. 168):—­

  I’ll build a house of sobs and sighs,
    With tears the lime I’ll slack;
  And there I’ll dwell with weeping eyes
    Until my love come back: 
  And there I’ll stay with eyes that burn
  Until I see my love return.

The house of love has been deserted, and the lover comes to moan beneath its silent eaves (p. 171):—­

  Dark house and window desolate! 
  Where is the sun which shone so fair? 
  ’Twas here we danced and laughed at fate: 
  Now the stones weep; I see them there. 
  They weep, and feel a grievous chill: 
  Dark house and widowed window-sill!

And what can be more piteous than this prayer? (p. 809):—­

  Love, if you love me, delve a tomb,
  And lay me there the earth beneath;
  After a year, come see my bones,
  And make them dice to play therewith. 
  But when you’re tired of that game,
  Then throw those dice into the flame;
  But when you’re tired of gaming free,
  Then throw those dice into the sea.

The simpler expression of sorrow to the death is, as usual, more impressive.  A girl speaks thus within sight of the grave (p. 808):—­