within my soul the fire which has brought me, as thou seest, to this pass; and knowing how ill it beseems me to love a king, and being unable, I say not to banish it from my heart, but so much as to bring it within bounds, and finding it exceeding grievous to bear, I have made choice of death as the lesser pain; and die I shall.  But should he wot not of my love before I die, sore disconsolate should I depart; and knowing not by whom more aptly than by thee I might give him to know this my frame, I am minded to entrust the communication thereof to thee; which office I entreat thee not to refuse, and having discharged it, to let me know, that dying thus consoled, I may depart this pain.”  Which said, she silently wept.

Marvelling at the loftiness of the girl’s spirit and her desperate determination, Minuccio commiserated her not a little; and presently it occurred to him that there was a way in which he might honourably serve her:  wherefore:—­“Lisa,” quoth he, “my faith I plight thee, wherein thou mayst place sure confidence that I shall never play thee false, and lauding thy high emprise, to wit, the setting thine affections upon so great a king, I proffer thee mine aid, whereby, so thou wilt be of good cheer, I hope, and believe, that, before thou shalt see the third day from now go by, I shall have brought thee tidings which will be to thee for an exceeding great joy; and, not to lose time, I will set to work at once.”  And so Lisa, assuring him that she would be of good cheer, and plying him afresh with instant obsecrations, bade him Godspeed; and Minuccio, having taken leave of her, hied him to one Mico da Siena, a very expert rhymester of those days, who at his instant request made the ensuing song:—­

Hence hie thee, Love; and hasting to my King,
  Give him to know what torment dire I bear,
  How that to death I fare,
  Still close, for fear, my passion harbouring.

Lo, Love, to thee with clasped hands I turn,
  And pray thee seek him where he tarrieth,
  And tell him how I oft for him do yearn,
  So sweetly he my heart enamoureth;
  And of the fire, wherewith I throughly burn,
  I think to die, but may the hour uneath
  Say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath
  Surcease; till when, neither may fear nor shame
  The least abate the flame. 
  Ah! to his ears my woeful story bring.

Since of him I was first enamoured,
  Never hast thou, O Love, my fearful heart
  With any such fond hope encouraged,
  As e’er its message to him to impart,
  To him, my lord, that me so sore bested
  Holds:  dying thus, ’twere grievous to depart: 
  Perchance, were he to know my cruel smart,
  ’Twould not displease him; might I but make bold
  My soul to him to unfold,
  And shew him all my woeful languishing.