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that I was persuaded by it, and after lying a night at the



Swan-and-Quiver Tavern I went back to London, and never again had

a desire to visit Lincolnshire.



But Fiammetta is still a pleasing memory --ay, and more than a

memory to me, for whenever I take down that precious book and



open it, what a host of friends do troop forth! Cavaliers,

princesses, courtiers, damoiselles, monks, nuns, equerries,



pages, maidens--humanity of every class and condition, and all

instinct with the color of the master magician, Boccaccio!



And before them all cometh a maiden with dark, glorious eyes, and

she beareth garlands of roses; the moonlight falleth like a



benediction upon the Florentine garden slope, and the night wind

seeketh its cradle in the laurel tree, and fain would sleep to



the song of the nightingale.

As for Judge Methuen, he loves his Boccaccio quite as much as I



do mine, and being somewhat of a versifier he has made a little

poem on the subject, a copy of which I have secured



surreptitiously and do now offer for your delectation:

One day upon a topmost shelf



I found a precious prize indeed,

Which father used to read himself,



But did not want us boys to read;

A brown old book of certain age



(As type and binding seemed to show),

While on the spotted title-page



Appeared the name ``Boccaccio.''

I'd never heard that name before,



But in due season it became

To him who fondly brooded o'er



Those pages a beloved name!

Adown the centuries I walked



Mid pastoral scenes and royal show;

With seigneurs and their dames I talked--



The crony of Boccaccio!

Those courtly knights and sprightly maids,



Who really seemed disposed to shine

In gallantries and escapades,



Anon became great friends of mine.

Yet was there sentiment with fun,



And oftentimes my tears would flow

At some quaint tale of valor done,



As told by my Boccaccio.

In boyish dreams I saw again



Bucolic belles and dames of court,

The princely youths and monkish men



Arrayed for sacrifice or sport.

Again I heard the nightingale



Sing as she sang those years ago

In his embowered Italian vale



To my revered Boccaccio.

And still I love that brown old book



I found upon the topmost shelf--

I love it so I let none look



Upon the treasure but myself!

And yet I have a strapping boy



Who (I have every cause to know)

Would to its full extent enjoy



The friendship of Boccaccio!

But boys are, oh! so different now



From what they were when I was one!

I fear my boy would not know how



To take that old raconteur's fun!

In your companionship" target="_blank" title="n.伴侣关系;友谊">companionship, O friend,



I think it wise alone to go

Plucking the gracious fruits that bend



Wheree'er you lead, Boccaccio.

So rest you there upon the shelf,



Clad in your garb of faded brown;




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