O, I would make short work of this.  The wound
Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand,
And then about his chamber walk at ease.

Now we had counsell’d how to have him home,
And that same trading vessel beating up
The Irish Channel at my will, that same
I charter’d for to serve me in the war,
Next was I minded should mine enemy
Deliver to his father, and his land. 
Daily we looked for her, till in our cove,
Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked,
Behold her rocking; and I hasted down
And left him waiting in the house. 
                                    Woe ’s me! 
All being ready speed I home, and lo
My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat
Upon a cushion’d settle, book in hand. 
I needs must think how in the deep alcove
Thick chequer’d shadows of the window-glass
Did fall across her kirtle and her locks,
For I did see her thus no more. 
                                 She held
Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read
Till he would stop her at the needed word. 
‘O well is thee,’ she read, my Rosamund,
’O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. 
Thy wife—­’ and there he stopped her, and he took
And kissed her hand, and show’d in ’s own a ring,
Taking no heed of me, no heed at all.

Then I burst forth, the choler red i’ my face
When I did see her blush, and put it on. 
‘Give me,’ quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid,
Gave me the ring.  I set my heel on it,
Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth,
And did in righteous anger storm at him. 
‘What! what!’ quoth I, ’before her father’s eyes,
Thou universal villain, thou ingrate,
Thou enemy whom I shelter’d, fed, restored,
Most basest of mankind!’ And Rosamund,
Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm,
And ‘Father,’ cries she, ‘father.’ 
                                   And I stormed
At him, while in his Spanish he replied
As one would speak me fair.  ‘Thou Spanish hound!’
‘Father,’ she pleaded.  ‘Alien vile,’ quoth I,
’Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus? 
It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes
On this my daughter.’  ‘Father,’ moans my girl;
And I, not willing to be so withstood,
Spoke roughly to her.  Then the Spaniard’s eyes
Blazed—­then he stormed at me in his own tongue,
And all his Spanish arrogance and pride
Broke witless on my wrathful English.  Then
He let me know, for I perceived it well,
He reckon’d him mine equal, thought foul scorn
Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me
As I with him.  ‘Father,’ sighed Rosamund. 
‘Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,’ quoth I.
And slowly, slowly, she betook herself
Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went
And made her moans. 
                     But when my girl was gone
I stood at fault, th’ occasion master’d me;
Belike it master’d him, for both felt mute.