Splintering the stone bench, braving a rebuff
She stopped the truncheon; only to commence
One of Sordello's poems, a pretence
For speaking, some poor rhyme of "Elys' hair
And head that's sharp and perfect like a pear,
So smooth and close are laid the few fine locks
May, even from the depths of failure
Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks
Sun-blanched the livelong summer"—from his worst
Performance, the Goito, as his first: