exchanged a word with her, and even some that bewail and mourn the

raging fever of jealousy, for which she never gave anyone cause,

for, as I have already said, her misconduct was known before her

passion. There is no nook among the rocks, no brookside, no shade

beneath the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his

woes to the breezes; wherever there is an echo it repeats the name

of Leandra; the mountains ring with "Leandra," "Leandra" murmur the

brooks, and Leandra keeps us all bewildered and bewitched, hoping