HKB
I laid, Yielding myself to thee with trustful mind: Thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind, Eftsoons didst swoop on me, And with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy prey.
Then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain, Thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did call Hither my death to be; for that in pain And bitter tears I waste away, his thrall: Nor heave I e'er a sigh, or tear let fall, So harsh a lord is he, That him inclines a jot my grief to allay.
My prayers upon the idle air are spent: He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain The more each hour my soul doth her torment; Nor may I die, albeit to die were gain. Ah! Lord, have pity of my bitter pain! Help have I none but thee; Then take and bind and at my feet him lay.
But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose From hope, that her still binds with triple chain. Sure, O my Lord, this prayer thou'lt not refuse: The which so thou to grant me do but deign, I look my wonted beauty to regain, And banish misery With roses white and red bedecked and gay.
So with a most piteous sigh ended Elisa her song, whereat all wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang. But the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for Tindaro, and bade him out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto, until, no small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to betake them to rest.