Why spoil with pernicious tears thy black eyes, so pleasant when therein sparkles the wit of a tale, that popes pardon thee thy sayings for the sake of thy merry laughter, feel their souls caught between the ivory of thy teeth, have their hearts drawn by the rose point of thy sweet tongue, and would barter the holy slipper for a hundred of the smiles that hover round thy vermillion lips?  Laughing lassie, if thou wouldst remain always fresh and young, weep no more; think of riding the brideless fleas, of bridling with the golden clouds thy chameleon chimeras, of metamorphosing the realities of life into figures clothed with the rainbow, caparisoned with roseate dreams, and mantled with wings blue as the eyes of the partridge.  By the Body and the Blood, by the Censer and the Seal, by the Book and the Sword, by the Rag and the Gold, by the Sound and the Colour, if thou does but return once into that hovel of elegies where eunuchs find ugly women for imbecile sultans, I’ll curse thee; I’ll rave at thee; I’ll make thee fast from roguery and love; I’ll—­

Phist!  Here she is astride a sunbeam with a volume that is ready to burst with merry meteors!  She plays in their prisms, tearing about so madly, so wildly, so boldly, so contrary to good sense, so contrary to good manners, so contrary to everything, that one has to touch her with long feathers, to follow her siren’s tail in the golden facets which trifle among the artifices of these new pearls of laughter.  Ye gods! but she is sporting herself in them like a hundred schoolboys in a hedge full of blackberries, after vespers.  To the devil with the magister!  The volume is finished!  Out upon work!  What ho! my jovial friends; this way!