Thou hadst secured the golden cage before the bird was flown.
For scarce thy hurrying footsteps from Tarfe's garden came,
Ere thou boastedst of thine hour of bliss, and of my lot of shame.
They tell me that the lock of hair I gave thee on that night,
Thou drewest from thy bosom, in all the people's sight,
And gav'st it to a base-born Moor, who took the tresses curled,
And tied them in thy turban, before the laughing world.
I ask not that thou wilt return nor yet the relic keep,
But I tell thee, while thou wearest it, my shame is dire and deep:
They say that thou hast challenged him, and swearest he shall rue