seeking a cure that would give him life, he brought to pass in another the hastening of his death; for, heedless of himself for his sweetheart’s sake, he perceived not that his arm became unbound, and that the newly-opened wound discharged so much blood that he was, poor gentleman, completely bathed in it.  Thinking, however, that his weakness had been caused by his excess, he bethought himself of returning home.

Then love, which had too closely united them, so dealt with him that, as he was parting from his sweetheart, his soul parted from his body, and, by reason of his great loss of blood, he fell dead at his lady’s feet.

She, on her side, stood there in astonishment, contemplating the loss of so perfect a lover, of whose death she had herself been the sole cause.  Reflecting, on the other hand, on the shame and sorrow that would be hers if the dead body were found in her house, she carried it, with a serving-woman whom she trusted, into the street in order that the matter might not be known.  Nevertheless, she felt that she could not leave it there alone.  Taking up the dead man’s sword, she was fain to share his fate, and, indeed, to punish her heart, which had been the cause of all his woe, she pierced it through and through, so that her dead body fell upon that of her lover.

When her father and mother came out of their house in the morning, they found this pitiful sight, and, after making such mourning as was natural, they buried the lovers together.

“Thus, ladies, may it be seen that excessive love brings with it other woe.”

“This is what I like to see,” said Simontault, “a love so equal that when one died the other could not live.  Had I, by the grace of God, found such a mistress, I think that none could ever have ioved her more perfectly than I.”

“Yet am I of opinion,” said Parlamente, “that you would not have been so blinded by love as not to bind up your arm better than he did.  The days are gone when men were wont to forget their lives for the ladies’ sake.”

“But those are not gone,” said Simontault, “when ladies are apt to forget their lovers’ lives for their pleasure’s sake.”

“I think,” said Ennasuite, “that there is no living woman that can take pleasure in the death of a man, no, not even though he were her enemy.  Still, if men will indeed kill themselves, the ladies cannot prevent them.”

“Nevertheless,” said Saffredent, “she that denies the gift of bread to a poor starving man is held to be a murderess.”

“If your requests,” said Oisille, “were as reasonable as those of a poor man seeking to supply his needs, it would be over cruel of the ladies to refuse you.  God be thanked, however, your sickness kills none but such as must of necessity die within the year.”

“I do not understand, madam,” said Saffredent, “that there can be any greater need than that which causes all others to be forgotten.  When love is deep, no bread and no meat whatsoever can be thought of save the glance and speech of the woman whom one loves.”