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And he lays it all at the feet of that young girl who is wandering in yonder boschetto with a penniless artist." "He is certainly a phoenix of princes! The signora must be in a state of bliss." The Cavaliere looked imperturbably grave. "The signora has a high esteem for his character." "His character, by the way," rejoined Rowland, with a smile; "what sort of a character is it?"
He visited the ancient armoury dined at the palace, and at the different messes inspected the laborious travailings of the silkworm at the boschetto conversed with the original of Byron's Leila a sweet creature she is! looked with wondering eye on the ostrich of Fort Manuel and heard the then commandant's wife relate her tale thereanent.
Cavalcanti, being exiled from Florence, went on a visit to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella; and upon the way, passing through Toulouse, he was captivated by a beautiful Spanish girl, whom he has made celebrated under the name of Mandetta: "In un boschetto trovai pastorella, Più che la stella bella al mio parere, Capegli avea biondetti e ricciutelli."
Out, out! Could any one save a humourist of high order have given Moses such a pair of horns, or set, under Music, such a shagged Tubal to belabour an anvil? The wall sings like an anthology, a Gothic anthology where "Bele Aliz matin leva" is versicle, and "In un boschetto trovai pastorella" antiphon.
The intercourse between Lorenzo and Pulci was of the most familiar kind. Pulci was sixteen years older, but of a nature which makes no such differences felt between associates. He had known Lorenzo from the latter's youth, probably from his birth is spoken of in a tone of domestic intimacy by his wife and is enumerated by him among his companions in a very special and characteristic manner in his poem on Hawking (La Caccia col Falcone), when, calling his fellow-sportsmen about him, and missing Luigi, one of them says that he has strolled into a neighbouring wood, to put something which has struck his fancy into a sonnet: "'Luigi Pulci ov' è, che non si sente? 'Egli se n' andò dianzi in quel boschetto, Che qualche fantasia ha per la mente; Vorr
The part of the garden called the Boschetto has an incredible, impossible charm; an upper terrace, behind locked gates, covered with a little dusky forest of evergreen oaks.
And yet if the Borghese is good the Medici is strangely charming, and you may stand in the little belvedere which rises with such surpassing oddity out of the dusky heart of the Boschetto at the latter establishment a miniature presentation of the wood of the Sleeping Beauty and look across at the Ludovisi pines lifting their crooked parasols into a sky of what a painter would call the most morbid blue, and declare that the place where <i>they</i> grow is the most delightful in the world.
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