To the tune of a Neapolitan song, which begih, "No, no, no, no."
No, no, no, no, I ot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; For so fair a flame embraces All the places, Where that heat of all heats sprih, That it brio my dyi some pleasure, Since his treasure Burh bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, I ot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; Since our lives be not immortal, But to mortal Fetters tied, do wait the hour Of deaths power, They have no cause to be sorry Who with glory End the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, I ot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; No man doubts, whom beauty killeth, Fair death feeleth, And in whom fair death proceedeth, Glory breedeth: So that I, in her beams dying, Glory trying, Though in pain, ot plain. No, no, no, no.