Every man, every woman, every child

In Rome, of what she would: the selfsame she

Who, but a year ago, had wrung her hands,

Reddened her eyes and beat her breasts, rehearsed

The whole game at Arezzo, nor availed

Thereby to, move one heart or raise one hand!

When destiny intends you cards like these,

What good of skill and preconcerted play?

Had she been found dead, as I left her dead,

I should have told a tale brooked no reply: