Forth went her ship throughout the narrow mouth Of Jubaltare and Septe, 1697 driving alway, Sometimë west, and sometime north and south, And sometime east, full many a weary day: Till Christë’s mother (blessed be she aye) Had shapen 1698 through her endëless goodness To make an end of all her heaviness.

Now let us stint of Constance but a throw, 1699 And speak we of the Roman emperor, That out of Syria had by letters know The slaughter of Christian folk, and dishonór Done to his daughter by a false traitór⁠— I mean the cursed wicked Soudaness, That at the feast let 1700 slay both more and less.