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More low, more awfully severe, he cried, “ Dost thou too know me not ?"

She glanced on him, And pale and breathless hid her head convuls'd In the Maid's bosom.

“ King of France !" he said, “ She lov'd me! day by day I dwelt with her, “ Her voice was music, very sweet her smiles ! “ I left her! left her Charles, in evil hour,

“ To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come, * “ Staining most foul her spotless purity;

“ For she was pure.--Alas! these courtly robes
“ Hide not the hideous stain of infamy,
“Thou canst not with thy golden * belt put on

* Du Proverbe Bonne renommee vaut mieux que ceinture doree.

Lisant un arrest ancien qui est encores pour le jourd 'huy in. seré aux Registres du Chastelet de Paris, j'estimay qu'en ce proverbe il y avoit une notable sentence, et une longue ancienneté tout ensemble. Car par arrest qui est du 28 de Juin 1420. il est porté en termes exprés que deffenses sont faites à toutes femmes amoureuses, filles de joye, et paillardes de ne porter

An honourable name, unhappy one !
“My poor polluted Agnes !—Thou bad man!
“ Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven.
“ I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt,
“And yet thou restest pillowing thy head
“ Even' on her bosom! I, tho' innocent
“ Of ill, the vi&im of another's vice,
Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence,
“ And doubt Heaven's justice !"

robbes à collets renversez, queües, ne ceintures dorees, boutonnieres à leurs chaperons, sur peine de confiscation et amende, et que les Huissiers de Parlement, Commissaires & Sergents du Chastelet qui les trouveroient, eussent à les mener prisonnieres.

Au surplus (je diray cecy en passant) à la mienne volonté que ceux qui donnerent cest arrest eussent tourné la chance, et que non seulement ces ceintures dorees, ains en toutes autres dorures, & affliquets, ils eussent fait deffences à toutes femmes d'honneur d'emporter, sur peine d'estre declarees putains : car il n'y auroit point plus prompt moyen que cestuy, pour bannier le superfluité & bombance des Dames.

Pasquier. So he said, and frown'd Dark as that man who at Mohammed's door Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled. Even he the prophet almost terrified, Endur'd but half to view him, for he knew Azrael, stern-brow'd Messenger af Fate, And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified The Monarch sat, nor could endure to face His bosom-probing frown. The mission d Maid Read anxious his stern features and exclaim'd " I know thee Conrade !" Rising from her seat, She took his hand, for he stood motionless, Gazing on Agnes now with full-fix'd eye, Dreadful though calm : him from the Court she drew, And to the river's banks resisting not, Both sadly silent, led; till at the last As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck, He wept.

." I know thee, Damsel !" he exclaim'de “ Dost thou remember that tempestuous night, * When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought “ Your hospitable doors ? ah me! I then “ Was happy! you too sojourn'd then in peace. “ Fool that I was, I blam'd sạch happiness, Arraign'd it as a guilty selfish sloth, “Unbappily prevailing, so I fear me, • Or why art thou at Chinon ?"

Him the Maid Answering, address'd, “I do remember well “ That night: for then the holy Spirit first, “ Waked by thy words, possessid me."

Conrade cried, * Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd " Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd " Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path. And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd “ The feverish fancies of thine ardent brain ! " And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye

* For ever glancing on thee, spake so well “ Affection's eloquent tale ?

So as he said, Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek. “ I am alone" she answer d, “ for this realm “Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid Endur'd; for many a melancholy thought Throng‘d on her aching memory. Her mind's eye Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc : Her burthen'd heart was full; such grief she felt Yet such sweet solacing of self applause As chears the banish'd Patriots lonely hours When Fancy pictures to him all he loved, Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb, And drowns the soft enchantment.

With a look That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed The silent Maid; nor would the Maid suppress The thoughts that swelld within her, or from him Hide her soul's workings. “ 'Twas on the last night

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