Oh sweet revenge!
Thou art my only hope, my only dower,
And I will make thee worthy of a Queen.
Proud noble, I will weave thee such a web,--
I will so spoil and trample on thy pride,
That thou shalt wish the woman's distaff were
Ten thousand lances rather than itself.
Ha! waiting still, sir Priest! Well as them seest
Our venture hath been somewhat baulk'd,--'tis not
Each arrow readies swift and true the aim,--
Love having failed, we'll try the best expedient,
That offers next,--what sayst thou to revenge?
'Tis not so soft, but then 'tis very sure;
Say, shall we wring this haughty soul a little?
Tame this proud spirit, curb this untrain'd charger?
We will not weigh too heavily, nor grind
Too hard, but, having bow'd him to the earth,
Leave the pursuit to others--carrion birds,
Who stoop, but not until the falcon's gorg'd
Upon the prey he leaves to their base talons.