re-lifting of musical
notes; illuminated thus it greatly charmed, and if any one would know
the order of such a tune, why, it should follow the punctuation: a
cessation at the third line; a rise of rapid accents to the thirteenth,
and then a change; the last three lines of the whole very much fuller
and strong.

So I would hear it sung on a winter evening in an old house in Auvergne,
and re-enter the sixteenth century as I heard.

_TO HIS LADY IN SICKNESS._

_Ma mignonne,
Je vous donne
Le bon jour.
Le sejour,
C'est prison.
Guerison
Recouvrez,
Puis ouvrez
Vostre porte
Et qu'on sorte
Vistement;
Car Clement
Le vous mande.
Va, friande
De ta bouche,
Qui se couche
En danger
Pour manger
Confitures;
Si tu dures
Trop malade,
Couleur fade
Tu prendras
Et perdras
L'embonpoint.
Dieu te doint,
Sante bonne,
Ma mignonne._

THE VINEYARD SONG.
(_The 4th of the Chansons._)

Here is Marot's best--even though many of his native critics will not
admit it so; but to feel it in full one must be exiled from the vines.

It is a tapestry of the Renaissance; the jolly gods of the Renaissance,
the old gods grown Catholic moving across a happier stage. Bacchus in
long robes and with solemnity blessing the vine, Silenus and the
hobbling smith who smithied the Serpe, the Holy Vineyard Knife in
heaven, all these by their diction and their flavour recall the Autumn
in Herault and the grapes under a pure sky, pale at the horizon, and
labourers and their carts in the vineyard, and these set in the frame of
that great time when Satur