LES INDOLENTS.

BAH! spite of Fate, that says us nay, Suppose we die together, eh? —A rare conclusion you discover!

—What's rare is good. Let us die so, Like lovers in Boccaccio. —Hi! hi! hi! you fantastic lover!

—Nay, not fantastic. If you will, Fond, surely irreproachable. Suppose, then, that we die together?

—Good sir, your jests are fitlier told Than when you speak of love or gold. Why speak at all, in this glad weather?

Whereat, behold them once again, Tircis beside his Dorimène, Not far from two blithe rustic rovers,

For some caprice of idle breath Deferring a delicious death. Hi! hi! hi! what fantastic lovers!