It was Ippolito, our foeman’s son,
At whom I gazed, I should have turned away,
My father’s daughter sure had turned away.
But nothing warned me, nothing hindered him;
We looked upon each other, Fate so willed,
And with our eyes our hearts met!
“Cursed cur,”
My brother muttered, fingering at his sword,
“I’ll teach you to ogle us when this is done!”
“Who is it, then?” I whispered, and he told;