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

The false lapwynge, full of trecherye.

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

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.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.