ROSAURA. Noble-hearted Sigismund! Thou whose hidden light heroic Issues from its night of shadows To the great deeds of its morning; And as heaven's sublimest planet From the white arms of Aurora Back restores their beauteous colour To the wild flowers and the roses, And upon the seas and mountains, When endiademed with glory, Scatters light, diffuses splendour, Braids their foam, their hair makes golden; Thus thou dawnest on the world Bright auspicious sun of Poland, Who will help a hapless woman, She who at thy feet doth throw her, Help her, since she is unhappy, And a woman; two good motives Quite enough to move a man Who of valour so doth boast him, Though even one would be sufficient, Though even one would be all potent. Thou hast seen me thrice already, Thrice thou hast not truly known me, For each time by different dresses Was I strangely metamorphosed. First I seemed to thee a man, When within thy sad and sombre Cell thou sawest me, when thy life Wiled from me mine own misfortunes. As a woman next thou sawest me, Where the splendours of thy throne-room Vanished like a fleeting vision, Vain, phantasmal and abortive. The third time is now, when being Something monstrous and abnormal, In a woman's dress thou see'st me With a warrior's arms adorned. And to pity and compassion That thou may'st be moved more strongly, Listen to the sad succession Of my tragical misfortunes. In the Court of Muscovy I was born of a noble mother, Who indeed must have been fair Since unhappiness was her portion. Fond and too persuading eyes Fixed on her, a traitor lover, Whom, not knowing, I don't name, Though mine own worth hath informed me What was his: for being his image, I sometimes regret that fortune Made me not a pagan born, That I might, in my wild folly, Think he must have been some god, Such as he was, who in golden Shower wooed Danae, or as swan Leda loved, as bull, Europa. When I thought to lengthen out, Citing these perfidious stories, My discourse, I find already That I have succinctly told thee How my mother, being persuaded By the flatteries of love's homage, Was a fair as any fair, And unfortunate as all are. That ridiculous excuse Of a plighted husband's promise So misled her, that even yet the remembrance brings her sorrow. For that traitor, that Aeneas Flying from his Troy, forgot there, Or left after him his sword. By this sheath its blade is covered, But it shall be naked drawn Ere this history is over. From this loosely fastened know Which binds nothing, which ties nothing, Call it marriage, call it crime, Names its nature cannot alter, I was born, a perfect image, A true copy of my mother, In her loveliness, ah, no! In her miseries and misfortunes. Therefore there is little need To say how the hapless daughter, Heiress of such scant good luck, Had her own peculiar portion. All that I will say to thee Of myself is, that the robber Of the trophies of my fame, Of the sweet spoils of my honour, Is Astolfo . . . . Ah! to name him