II
How well, how well you woo me with soft speech,
Fire swift my blood with wreathèd word divine!
“If power to choose Love’s own pure tongue were mine,”
You said, “I’d choose Italia’s to teach
You how I love; but If I must beseech
As penitent, mercy, pardon divine—
(As now in love’s proud passion I seek thine)—
O! let us, Sweet, speak Spanish, each to each!”
“But if in haughtiness I would command,
See armies, nations, bow beneath my word,
Then let the bitter English tongue be heard!”
“Love! Love!” I cried, “stretch out your sceptred hand,
Put from you the soft vowels that sing of Spain—
Look! Look! I kneel before you in love’s pain!”