Then he who sees his happiness depart By any way, who doth his glory see Transformed into such bitter grievous pain-- Why ends he not his life with all its smart? Against the countless powers of destiny Why strives he not to break the vital chain? Slowly I pass amain Unto the peril sweet of bitter death. Wherefore, mine arm, bold 'midst thy weariness, Endure thou the distress Of living, since our lot it brighteneth To know that 'tis Love's will That grief should do the deed, as steel doth kill. My death is certain, for it cannot be That he should live whose very hope is dead, And who from glory doth so far remain. Yet this I fear, that death, by Love's decree, May be impossible, that memory fed By a false confidence may live again In my despite. What then? For if the tale of my past happiness I call to mind, and see that all is gone, That I am now undone By the sad cares I in its stead possess, 'Twill serve the more to show That I from memory and from life should go. Ah! chief and only good my soul hath known! Sun that didst calm the storm within my breast! Goal of the worth that is desired by me! Can it be that the day should ever dawn When I must know that thou rememberest No more, and Love that day doth let me see? Rather, ere this should be, Ere thy fair neck be by another's arms In all its loveliness encircled, ere Thy golden--nay thy hair Is gold, and ere its gold in all its charms Should make Daranio rich, Its end may the evil with my life's end reach. None hath by faith better deserved than I To win thee; but I see that faith is dead, Unless it be by deeds made manifest. To certain grief and to uncertain joy I yield my life; and if I merited Thereby, I might hope for a gladsome feast. But in this cruellest Law used by Love, hath good desire no place, This proverb lovers did of old discover: The deed declares the lover, And as for me, who to my hurt possess Naught but the will to do, Wherein must I not fail, whose deeds are few?