Out of window one head pokes;
      Twenty others do the same:—­
      Chatter, clatter!—­creaks and croaks
      All the year the same old game!—­
      ‘See my spinning!’ cries one dame,
      ‘Five long ells of cloth, I trow!’
      Cries another, ’Mine must go,
      Drat it, to the bleaching base!’

  ‘Devil take the fowl!’ says one: 
      ’Mine are all bewitched, I guess;
      Cocks and hens with vermin run,
      Mangy, filthy, featherless.’ 
      Says another:  ’I confess
      Every hair I drop, I keep—­
      Plague upon it, in a heap
      Falling off to my disgrace!’

  If you see a fellow walk
      Up or down the street and back,
      How you nod and wink and talk,
      Hurry-skurry, cluck and clack!—­
      ’What, I wonder, does he lack
      Here about?’—­’There’s something wrong!’
      Till the poor man’s made a song
      For the female populace.

  It were well you gave no thought
      To such idle company;
      Shun these gossips, care for nought
      But the business that you ply. 
      You who chatter, you who cry,
      Heed my words; be wise, I pray: 
      Fewer, shorter stories say: 
      Bide at home, and mind your place.

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

The Madrigale, intended to be sung in parts, was another species of popular poetry cultivated by the greatest of Italian writers.  Without seeking examples from such men as Petrarch, Michelangelo, or Tasso, who used it as a purely literary form, I will content myself with a few Madrigals by anonymous composers, more truly popular in style, and more immediately intended for music.[32] The similarity both of manner and matter, between these little poems and the Ballate, is obvious.  There is the same affectation of rusticity in both.

  Cogliendo per un prato.

  Plucking white lilies in a field I saw
    Fair women, laden with young Love’s delight: 
    Some sang, some danced; but all were fresh and bright. 
  Then by the margin of a fount they leaned,
    And of those flowers made garlands for their hair—­
    Wreaths for their golden tresses quaint and rare. 
  Forth from the field I passed, and gazed upon
  Their loveliness, and lost my heart to one.

  Togliendo l’ una all’ altra.

  One from the other borrowing leaves and flowers,
    I saw fair maidens ’neath the summer trees,
    Weaving bright garlands with low love-ditties. 
  Mid that sweet sisterhood the loveliest
    Turned her soft eyes to me, and whispered, ‘Take!’
    Love-lost I stood, and not a word I spake. 
  My heart she read, and her fair garland gave: 
  Therefore I am her servant to the grave.