ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL
A STORY, FROM BOCCACCIO
I
air Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a youg palmer in Love's eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well	5
It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep,
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
II
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;	1°
He might not in house, field, or garden stir
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,	15
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
Ill
He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;	20
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turned to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
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