3020So that old Folco's lungs shall crack with laughter
To hear me chat the travails of his daughter.
First she, mistrusting that she should be forc'd,
By his proud nod, unto a hated pillow,
From folly, Folco, folk, herself divorced,
To twist, for scornèd maids, some wreaths of willow.
How zealously she prayed, and looked demurely!
She is, in thought and word, a virgin surely.
But the conceit is this—Who bridles laughter,
That virgins holy, pure, and nuns to boot,