Though I go unarmed and go alone,
For my son's death she shall atone.
I'll take this witch of Reggio
And through the flames will make her go,
Till her sweet red lips grow cracked and sere,
Till her eyes are scarred and mad with fear,
Till her false young tongue cannot speak love's
name,
Till her tender feet drop off with flame—
Till she hath naught left that men desire