were to say less, and do more. But themselves do say to this: "Nay! nay! at the first beginning we must needs steel our hearts like a murderer, and put on a bold front, resolved to swallow every shame. This doth last a while, but only a while; then presently, after being chief dish on the table and most observed of all, we be left alone and another takes our place."
I have read in a little Spanish work how Vittoria Colonna, daughter of the great Fabrice Colonna, and wife to the great and famous Marquis de Pescaïre, the nonpareil of his time, after losing her husband,—and God alone knoweth how good an one he was,—did fall into such despair and grief 'twas impossible to give or afford her any consolation whatever. When any did offer any form of comfort, old or new, she would answer them: "For what would you give me consolation?—for my husband that is dead? Nay! you deceive yourselves; he is not dead. He is yet alive, I tell you, and stirring within mine heart. I do feel him, every day and every night, come to life and move and be born again in me." Very noble words indeed these had been, if only after some while, having taken farewell of him and sent him on his way over Acheron, she had not married again with the Abbé de Farfe, an ill match to the noble Pescaïre. I mean not in family, for he was of the noble house of the Des Ursins, the which is as good, and eke as ancient, as that of Avalos,—or more so. But the merits of the one did far outweight those of the other, for truly those of Pescaïre were inestimable, and his valour beyond compare, while the said Abbé, albeit he gave much proof of his bravery, and did work very faithfully and doughtily in the service of King Francis, was yet employed only in small, obscure and
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