XIX

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!

      Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,

And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,

      And of thy roses amorous of the moon,

And of thy lilies, that do paler grow

      Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune,

For venturing syllables that ill beseem

The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.