I will the least my bosom doth contain,
Put forth, with all the feeble wit I have—
Methinks the victory in your strife I'll gain—
And unto you I shall the verdict leave,
To judge my ill whether it harroweth
More than the absence which doth Crisio grieve,
Or than the dread and bitter ill of death;
For each of you doth heedless make his plaint,
Bitter and brief he calls the lot he hath.
OROMPO.
Thereat I feel, Marsilio, much content,
Because the reason I have on my side,
Hath to my anguish hope of triumph sent.
CRISIO.
Although the skill is unto me denied
To exaggerate, when I my grief proclaim,
Ye will behold how yours are set aside.
MARS.
Unto the deathless hardness of my dame
What absence reaches? Though so hard is she,
Mistress of beauty her the world acclaim.
OROMPO.