Dost thou not love the golden antique time,
When knights and heroes, for a lady's love,
Would spear the dragon?
Or when Boccaccio's dames, now long ago,
Lay laughing on the grass, hearing and telling
Wild love adventures, witty merry tales,
That made the heart leap high. And yet, even they
Would sadden amidst their flowers, when that some story
(Like a rose unfolded) was betrayed, which shewed
What Love indeed was made of,—when the world—
Chance—falsehood—danger tried its truth till death,
And proved its hues unaltered.