This second series comes in the merry month of June, when all is green
and gay, because the poor muse, whose slave the author is, has been
more capricious then the love of a queen, and has mysteriously wished
to bring forth her fruit in the time of flowers. No one can boast
himself master of this fay. At times, when grave thoughts occupy the
mind and grieve the brain, comes the jade whispering her merry tales
in the author’s ear, tickling her lips with her feathers, dancing
sarabands, and making the house echo with her laughter. If by chance
the writer, abandoning science for pleasure, says to her, “Wait a
moment, little one, till I come,” and runs in great haste to play with
the madcap, she has disappeared. She has gone into her hole, hides
herself there, rolls herself up, and retires. Take the poker, take a
staff, a cudgel, a cane, raise them, strike the wench, and rave at
her, she moans; strap her, she moans; caress her, fondle her, she
moans; kiss her, say to her, “Here, little one,” she moans. Now she’s
cold, now she is going to die; adieu to love, adieu to laughter, adieu
to merriment, adieu to good stories. Wear mourning for her, weep and
fancy her dead, groan. Then she raises her head, her merry laugh rings
out again; she spreads her white wings, flies one knows not wither,
turns in the air, capers, shows her impish tail, her woman’s breasts,
her strong loins, and her angelic face, shakes her perfumed tresses,
gambols in the rays of the sun, shines forth in all her beauty,
changes her colours like the breast of a dove, laughs until she cries,
cast the tears of her eyes into the sea, where the fishermen find them
transmuted into pretty pearls, which are gathered to adorn the
foreheads of queens. She twists about like a colt broken loose,
exposing her virgin charms, and a thousand things so fair that a pope
would peril his salvation for her at the mere sight of them. During
these wild pranks of the ungovernable beast you meet fools and
friends, who say to the poor poet, “Where are your tales? Where are
your new volumes? You are a pagan prognosticator. Oh yes, you are
known. You go to fetes and feasts, and do nothing between your meals.
Where’s your work?”
Although I am by nature partial to kindness, I should like to see one
of these people impaled in the Turkish fashion, and thus equipped,
sent on the Love Chase. Here endeth the second series; make the devil
give it a lift with his horns, and it will be well received by a
smiling Christendom.
VOLUME III
THE THIRD TEN TALES