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Sighing still again, the girl turned once more to the old-fashioned instrument, with its faded crimson silk behind the walnut fretwork, and, playing the plaintive melody, sang an ancient serenade: Di questo cor tu m'hai ferito il core A cento colpi, piu non val mentire. Pensa che non sopporto piu il dolore, E se segu cosi, vado a morire.
The pious monk, in his ecstasies over Jesus, intones a song which might be that of those passionate farandoles of angels who dance and carol in Botticelli's most rapturous pictures: "Amore, amor, dove m'hai tu menato? Amore, amor, fuor di me m'hai trattato. Ciascun amante, amator del Signore, Venga alla danza cantando d'amore."
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