| Enter Lorenzo and Balthazar. | |
| Lor. | My lord, though Bellimperia seem thus coy, | |
| | Let reason hold you in your wonted joy: | |
| | In time the savage bull sustains the yoke, | |
| | In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure, | |
| | In time small wedges cleave the hardest oak, | |
| | In time the flint is pierc'd with softest shower, | |
| | And she in time will fall from her disdain, | |
| | And rue the suff'rance of your friendly pain. | |
| Bal. | No, she is wilder, and more hard withal, | |
| | Than beast, or bird, or tree, or stony wall. | 10 |
| | But wherefore blot I Bellimperia's name? | |
| | It is my fault, not she, that merits blame. | |
| | My feature is not to content her sight, | |
| | My words are rude, and work her no delight. | |
| | The lines I send her are but harsh and ill, | |
| | Such as do drop from Pan and Marsyas' quill. | |
| | My presents are not of sufficient cost, | |
| | And being worthless, all my labour's lost. | |
| | Yet might she love me for my valiancy: | |