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Ell' prist son teint des beux lyz blanchissans, Son chef de l'or, ses deux levres des rozes, Et du soleil ses yeux resplandissans: Le ciel usant de liberalite, Mist en l'esprit ses semences encloses, Son nom des Dieux prist l'immortalite. That he is thus a characteristic specimen of the poetical taste of that age, is indeed Du Bellay's chief interest.
Croix, with a half-malicious smile, as I raised the glass silently to my lips. I blushed deeply, and looked confused. "A ses beux yeux! whoever she be," said he, gayly tossing off his wine; "and now, if you feel disposed, I'll tell you my story. In good truth, it is not worth relating, but it may serve to set you asleep, at all events. "I have already told you I was a page.
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