To the maids of Saint Rèmy
All the gallants go for pleasure;
To the maids of Saint Rèmy—
Tripping to love's measure!
To the dames of Avignon
All the masters go for wiving;
To the dames of Avignon—
That shall be their shriving!
(He goes to the Loggia as they gayly applaud. Then Lello cries:)
Lello. Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in?
What! are you a sonnet-monger?
Petrarca. Ai, ai, aih!
(Motions Gherhardo—who goes.)
Lello. Come then! Your door is locked! down! let us in!
(Rattles it.)
Petrarca. No, ribald! hold! the key is on the sill!
Look for it and ascend!
(Orso enters.)
Stay, here is Orso!
(The old servant goes through and down the stairs to meet them. In a moment the tramp of feet is heard and they enter—Lello between them—singing:)
Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline!
Ehyo! ninni! onni! ōnz!
I went fishing on All Saints' Day
And—caught but human bones!
I went fishing on All Saints' Day,
The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black!
I went fishing on All Saints' Day—
But my love called me back!
She called me back and she kissed my lips—
Oh, my lips! Oh! onni ōnz!
"Better take love than—bones! bones!
(Sancia kisses Petrarca.)
Better take love than bones."
(They scatter with glee and Petrarca seizes Sancia to him.)
Petrarca. Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends!
Warm love is better, better!
And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand!
And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips!
Sancia. (interposing). Or—less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca!
You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night.
Petrarca. And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair!
Sancia. You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine,
To pledge him in!
Petrarca. The tankards bubble o'er!
(They go to the table.)
And see, they are wreathed of April,
With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.
We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!
Sancia. And that is—what? some dull and silly show
Out of your sallow books?
Petrarca. Those books were writ
With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon
Papyri of the stars!
Sancia. And—long ago?
Ha! long ago?
Petrarca. Returnless centuries!
Sancia. (contemptuously). Who loves the past,
Loves mummies and their dust—
And he will mould!
Who loves the future loves what may not be,
And feeds on fear.
Only one flower has Time—its name is Now!
Come, pluck it! pluck it!
Lello. Brava, maid! the Now!
Sancia. (dancing). Come, pluck it! pluck it!
Petrarca. By my soul, I will:
(Seizes her again.)
It grows upon these lips—and if to-night
They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would.
(She breaks from him.)
Flippa. Enough! the wine! the wine!
Sancia. O ever-thirsty
And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!
(She lifts a brimming cup.)
We'll drink to Messer Petrarca—
Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude.
May he long revel in the courts of Venus!
All (drinking). Aih, long!
Petrarca. As long as Sancia enchants them!
Flippa. I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.
Sancia. And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa!
Messer Petrarca, should not be made
High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil,
Whose breath of life is oaths?...
But, swear it!—by the Saints!
Who were great sinners all!
And by the bones of every monk or nun
Who ever darkened the world!
Lello. Or ever shall!
(A pause.)
Petrarca. I'll swear your eyes are singing
Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia,
Like nightingales in the wood!
Sancia. Pah! Messer Poet—
Such words as those you vent without an end—
To the Lady Laura!
Petrarca. Stop!
(Grows pale.)
Not her name—here!
(All have sat down; he rises.)
Sancia. O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might
Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?
(To the rest—rising.)
Shall we depart, that he may still indite them?
"To Laura—On the Vanity of Passion?"
"To Laura—Unrelenting?"
"To Laura—Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?"
(Laughs.)
"To Laura—Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?"
(Orso enters.)
Shall we depart?
[ROBERT M. McELROY]
Robert McNutt McElroy, author of the best of the recent histories of Kentucky, was born at Perryville, Kentucky, December 28, 1872. He took the three degrees conferred by Princeton University; and since 1901 he has been assistant professor of American history in that institution. For the Metropolitan Magazine of New York Dr. McElroy wrote an excellent History of the Mexican War, but this work has not yet appeared in book form. His Kentucky in the Nation's History (New York, 1909), gave him an honorable place among the younger generation of American historians, and certainly a high place in Kentucky literature. Upon his history of Kentucky Dr. McElroy labored for many years, no sacrifice was too great for him to make, no journey too long for him to undertake, provided a better perspective were to be obtained at the end of his travels. He spent many months with Colonel Reuben T. Durrett at Louisville, working in his library, and sitting at his feet drinking from the well of Western history which the Colonel has kept undefiled. This, too, was what so sadly mars his work: he does in the discussion of several great questions, hardly more than serve as amanuensis for Colonel Durrett and the late Colonel John Mason Brown. Their opinions and conclusions are accepted carte-blanche, and all other authorities are ruthlessly set aside. Dr. McElroy accepts Colonel Brown's book upon the Spanish Conspiracy, and writes a single line concerning Thomas Marshall Green's great work! He brings his narrative down to the commencement of the Civil War, which probably indicates that a second volume is in preparation in order that the entire field may be surveyed. His work is most scholarly, the latest historical procedure is sustained throughout, and the pity is that he so slavishly followed one or two authorities, though both of them were wholly excellent and profound, to the exclusion of all others. Originality of opinion is what the work lacks, a lack which it might have easily possessed with the author's undoubted ability, had he not lingered so long in literary Louisville.