As cunning singers, ere they strain on high
In loud melodieus tunes their gentle voice,
Prepare the hearers' ears to harmony, 
With feignings sweet, low notes and warble choice;
So she, not having yet forgot pardie 
Her wonted shifts and sleights in Cupid's toys,
A sequence first of sighs and sobs forth cast 
To breed compassion dear, then spoke at last:- 

Suppose not, cruel! that I come to woo 
Or pray, as ladies do their loves and lords.
Such were we late, if thou disdain it now, 
Or scorn to grant such grace as love affords,
At least yet as an en'my listen thou, 
Sworn foes sometime will talk and chaffer words;
For what I ask thee may'st thou grant right well,
And lessen nought thy wrath and anger fell.

If me thou hate, and in that hate delight, 
I come not to appease thee, hate me still;
It's like for like; I bore great hate and spite
'Gainst Christians all, chiefly I wish'd thee ill:
I was a pagan born, and all my might 
Against Golfredo bent, mine art and skill; 
I follow'd thee, took thee, and bore thee far 
To this strange isle, and kept thee safe from war;

And more, which more thy hate may justly move,
More to thy loss, more to thy shame and grief,
I thee enchanted and allur'd to love; 
Wicked deceit, craft worthy sharp reprief!
Mine honour gave I thee, all gifts above, 
And of my beauty made thee lord and chief,
And to my suitors old what I denay'd, 
That gave I thee, my lover new, unpray'd:

But reckon that among my faults, and let 
Those many wrongs provoke thee so to wrath
That hence thou run, and that at nought thou set
This pleasant house, so many joys which hath:
Go, travel, pass the seas, fight, conquest get,
Destroy our faith; what, shall I say our faith?
Ah no! no longer ours; before thy shrine
Alone I pray, thou cruel saint of mine.