Naturally the
adoration and worship of their lovers could not have been anything but
pleasant to women. There is a poem by the talented Provencal Countess
Beatrix de Die, which betrays genuine sorrow at the infidelity of her
friend, and at the same time leaves no doubt that she--and probably a
great many others--took the eulogies showered upon them by the
enraptured poets, literally. Once again woman accepts the position
thrust upon her by man, not this time the position of a drudge, but that
of a perfect and godlike being. Countess Beatrix credits herself with
all the qualities with which the imagination of her worshipper had
endowed her, as if they were unquestionable facts.
Hence all my songs will be with sadness fraught.
My lover fills my soul with bitter woe,
And yet is all the happiness I know.
My grace and favour all avail me naught.
My sparkling wit, my loveliness supreme,
They cannot hold his love and tender thought,
Of all my lofty worth bereft I seem.
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