To sing I must, of that I would rather not so bitter I am toward he who stole my love for I loved him more than anyone; my kindness and courtesy make no impression on him nor my beauty, my virtue or intelligence; so I am deceived and betrayed, as I should be if I were ugly . . . One thing consoles me: I never wronged him, And if love could bring him back It would, so much I have to give. I am glad that my love is greater than your vanity.
