named me Fiammetta, and himself Panfilo. Woe is me! How often, when
warmed with love and wine, did we tell tales, in the presence of our
dearest friends, of Fiammetta and Panfilo, feigning that they were
Greeks of the days of old, I at one time, he at another; and the tales
were all of ourselves; how we were first caught in the snares of Love,
and of what tribulations we were long the victims, giving suitable names
to the places and persons connected with the story! Certainly, I
frequently laughed at it all, being made merry by the simplicity of the
bystanders, as well as by his astuteness and sagacity. Yet betimes I
dreaded that in the flush of his excitement he might thoughtlessly let
his tongue wander in directions wherein it was not befitting it should
venture. But he, being ever far wiser than I imagined, guarded himself
craftily from any such blundering awkwardness.

_Oimè!_ most compassionate ladies, what is there that Love will not
teach to his subjects? and what is there that he is not able to render
them skilful in learning? I, who of all young women was the most
simple-minded, and ordinarily with barely power to loose my tongue, when
among my companions, concerning the most trivial and ordinary affairs,
now, because of this my affection, mastered so speedily all his modes of
speech that, in a brief space, my aptness at feigning and inventing
surpassed that of any poet! And there were few questions put to me in
response to which, after meditating on their main points, I could not
make up a pleasing tale: a thing, in my opinion, exceedingly difficult
for a young woman to begin, and still more difficult to finish and
relate afterward. But, if my actual situation required it, I might set
down numerous details which might, perhaps, seem to you of little or no
moment, as, for instance, the artful experiment whereby we tested the
fidelity of my favorite maid to whom, and to whom alone, we meditated
entrusting the secret of this hidden passion, considering that, should