What the nameless author does care for, is his telling of the love-story,
the passion of Aucassin and Nicolete. His originality lies in his
charming medley of sentiment and humour, of a smiling compassion and
sympathy with a touch of mocking mirth. The love of Aucassin and
Nicolete--

"Des grans paines qu'il soufri,"

that is the one thing serious to him in the whole matter, and that is not
so very serious. {2} The story-teller is no Mimnermus, Love and Youth are
the best things he knew,--"deport du viel caitif,"--and now he has "come
to forty years," and now they are with him no longer. But he does not
lament like Mimnermus, like Alcman, like Llwyarch Hen. "What is Life,
what is delight without golden Aphrodite? May I die!" says Mimnermus,
"when I am no more conversant with these, with secret love, and gracious
gifts, and the bed of desire." And Alcman, when his limbs waver beneath
him, is only saddened by the faces and voices of girls, and would change
his lot for the sea-birds. {3}

"Maidens with voices like honey for sweetness that breathe desire,
Would that I were a sea-bird with limbs that never could tire,
Over the foam-flowers flying with halcyons ever on wing,
Keeping a careless heart, a sea-blue bird of the spring."

But our old captive, having said farewell to love, has yet a kindly
smiling interest in its fever and folly. Nothing better has he met, even
now that he knows "a lad is an ass." He tells a love story, a story of
love overmastering, without conscience or care of aught but the beloved.
And the _viel caitif_ tells it with sympathy, and with a smile. "Oh
folly of fondness," he seems to cry, "oh merry days of desolation"