This is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called poetical justice.

It is all very fine; but it does not chime with my notions of right.

It is too one-sided--too ungenerous.
Let the world go on fretting about Laura and Petrarch if it will; but as for me, my tears and my lamentations shall be lavished upon the unsung defendant.
We saw also an autograph letter of Lucrezia Borgia, a lady for whom I have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the corpses ready for it.

We saw one single coarse yellow hair from Lucrezia's head, likewise.

It awoke emotions, but we still live.