musically—and not in vain—for the same gracious indulgence:—
Why shouldst thou sweare I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady it is already Morn,
And 't was last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
Mr. Lang is of the opinion that no Gallic verse has equalled in audacity this confession of limitations, this "Apologia pro Vita Sua;" and perhaps its light-heartedness is well out of general reach. But the French lover, like the English, was made of threats and promises alike fruitless of fulfilment, and Phillis had many a fair foreign sister, no whit more worthy of regard. Only, amid the laughter and raillery of a Latin people, there rings ever an undertone of regret,—not passionate and heart-breaking, as in Drayton's bitter cry,—
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,
but vague and subtle, linking itself tenderly to some long-ignored and half-forgotten sentiment, buried deep in the reader's heart.
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?
