has disappeared.  She has gone into her hole, hides herself there, rolls herself up, and retires.  Take the poker, take a staff, a cudgel, a cane, raise them, strike the wench, and rave at her, she moans; strap her, she moans; caress her, fondle her, she moans; kiss her, say to her, “Here, little one,” she moans.  Now she’s cold, now she is going to die; adieu to love, adieu to laughter, adieu to merriment, adieu to good stories.  Wear mourning for her, weep and fancy her dead, groan.  Then she raises her head, her merry laugh rings out again; she spreads her white wings, flies one knows not wither, turns in the air, capers, shows her impish tail, her woman’s breasts, her strong loins, and her angelic face, shakes her perfumed tresses, gambols in the rays of the sun, shines forth in all her beauty, changes her colours like the breast of a dove, laughs until she cries, cast the tears of her eyes into the sea, where the fishermen find them transmuted into pretty pearls, which are gathered to adorn the foreheads of queens.  She twists about like a colt broken loose, exposing her virgin charms, and a thousand things so fair that a pope would peril his salvation for her at the mere sight of them.  During these wild pranks of the ungovernable beast you meet fools and friends, who say to the poor poet, “Where are your tales?  Where are your new volumes?  You are a pagan prognosticator.  Oh yes, you are known.  You go to fetes and feasts, and do nothing between your meals.  Where’s your work?”

Although I am by nature partial to kindness, I should like to see one of these people impaled in the Turkish fashion, and thus equipped, sent on the Love Chase.  Here endeth the second series; make the devil give it a lift with his horns, and it will be well received by a smiling Christendom.