W my charms are all o'er-thrown,
And what Arength I have's mine own;
Which is most faint: and now, 'tis true,
I must be bere confin’d by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have
And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands,
With the help of your good hands.
Gentle breath of yours my fails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. For now I want
Spirits t' enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be reliev'd by prayer;
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.