Changed to a lapwing by th' avenging god, He made the barren waste his lone abode, And oft on soaring pinions hover'd o'er The lofty palace then his own no more.

The false lapwynge, full of trecherye.

Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.