When I disdain the stinging and bitter spurs that wedge in my side, my heart complains; it drives me to form the concepts and words that I launch in revenge to cause you pain. But just as caliginous clouds will part before the bellows of blustery winds; my torment and indignation departs at first sight of your sun—it's haloed rings. If, then, I have cause to launch a tirade, I'll cease, lest I spawn too grave an offence; the heart will warm as the stern brow fades; much like the mother, whose rebuke frightens her child—has him trembling in spades— will as she offends, extend her caress.
Isabella Andreini (1562-1604) (Translation by Prontobard 2022)