We too in the Carnival
  Sang our love-songs through the town;
  Thus from sin to sin we all
  Headlong, heedless, tumbled down:—­
  Now we cry, the world around,
  Penitence! oh, Penitence!

  Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools! 
  Time steals all things as he rides: 
  Honours, glories, states, and schools,
  Pass away, and nought abides;
  Till the tomb our carcase hides,
  And compels this penitence.

  This sharp scythe you see us bear,
  Brings the world at length to woe: 
  But from life to life we fare;
  And that life is joy or woe: 
  All heaven’s bliss on him doth flow
  Who on earth does penitence.

  Living here, we all must die;
  Dying, every soul shall live: 
  For the King of kings on high
  This fixed ordinance doth give: 
  Lo, you all are fugitive! 
  Penitence!  Cry Penitence!

  Torment great and grievous dole
  Hath the thankless heart mid you;
  But the man of piteous soul
  Finds much honour in our crew: 
  Love for loving is the due
  That prevents this penitence.

  Sorrow, tears, and penitence
  Are our doom of pain for aye: 
  This dead concourse riding by
  Hath no cry but Penitence!

One song for dancing, composed less upon the type of the Ballata than on that of the Carnival Song, may here be introduced, not only in illustration of the varied forms assumed by this style of poetry, but also because it is highly characteristic of Tuscan town-life.  This poem in the vulgar style has been ascribed to Lorenzo de’ Medici, but probably without due reason.  It describes the manners and customs of female street gossips.

  Since you beg with such a grace,
      How can I refuse a song,
      Wholesome, honest, void of wrong,
      On the follies of the place?

  Courteously on you I call;
      Listen well to what I sing: 
      For my roundelay to all
      May perchance instruction bring,
      And of life good lessoning.—­
      When in company you meet,
      Or sit spinning, all the street
      Clamours like a market-place.

  Thirty of you there may be;
      Twenty-nine are sure to buzz,
      And the single silent she
      Racks her brains about her coz:—­
      Mrs. Buzz and Mrs. Huzz,
      Mind your work, my ditty saith;
      Do not gossip till your breath
      Fails and leaves you black of face!

  Governments go out and in:—­
      You the truth must needs discover. 
      Is a girl about to win
      A brave husband in her lover?—­
      Straight you set to talk him over: 
      ‘Is he wealthy?’ ’Does his coat
      Fit?’ ‘And has he got a vote?’
      ‘Who’s his father?’ ‘What’s his race?’