Each with thine anger 'gainst me doth conspire. Thy wrathful will soon, soon, avenged will be Upon the vain presumption of my will, Which was without a reason spurned by thee. No other pangs nor agonies would fill With agitation dread my mournful thought, Though greater than death's agonizing chill, If I could in my short and bitter lot But see thee towards my heart-felt wishes kind, As the reverse I see, that thou art not. Narrow the path that leads to bliss, I find, But broad and spacious that which leads to pain; By my misfortune this hath been designed, And death, that buttressed is on thy disdain, By this in anger and in haste doth run, Eager its triumph o'er my life to gain. By yonder path my bliss, well-nigh undone, Departs, crushed by the sternness thou dost show, Which needs must end my brief life all too soon. My fate hath raised me to the height of woe Where I begin e'en now to dread the scorn And anger of my sore-offended foe. 'Tis that I see the fire wherein I burn Is ice within thy breast, and this is why At the last moment I a coward turn. For if thou dost not show thee my ally, Of whom will my weak hand be not afraid, Though strength and skill the more accompany? What Roman warrior, if thou dost but aid, Or what Greek captain would oppose my might? Nay, from his purpose he would shrink dismayed. I would escape e'en from the direst plight, And from death's cruel hand away I'd bear The spoils of victory in his despite. Thou, thou, alone my lot aloft canst rear Above all human glory, or abase Unto the depths below--no bliss is there. For if, as pure Love had the power to raise, Fortune were minded to uphold my lot Safe 'midst the dangers of its lofty place, My hope which lieth where it hopeth naught, Itself would see exalted to a height Above the heaven where reigns the moon, in thought. Such am I that I now account delight The evil that thine angry scorn doth give Unto my soul in such a wondrous plight, If in thy memory I might see I live, And that perchance thou dost remember, sweet, To deal the wound which I as bliss receive. 'Twere easier far for me the tale complete To tell of the white sands beside the sea, Or of the stars that make the eighth heaven their seat, Than all the pain, the grief, the anxiety, Whereto the rigour of thy cruel disdain Condemns me, though I have not wounded thee. Seek not the measure of thy worth to gain