On riper years thy law tyrannical Might well its giant vigour have displayed, Nor dealt its cruel blow against a maid, Who hath of living had enjoyment small; But yet thy sickle which arrangeth all-- By no prayer turned aside nor word of power-- Moweth with ruthless blade the tender flower E'en as the knotty reed, stalwart and tall. When thou Listea from the world away Didst take, thy nature and thy strength, thy worth, Thy spirit, wrath and lordship to the earth Thou didst by that proud deed alone display. All that the earth possesseth fair and gay, Graceful and witty, thou didst likewise doom, When thou didst doom Listea; in her tomb Thou didst with her this wealth of blisses lay. My painful life grows longer, and its weight I can no more upon my shoulders bear, For without her I am in darkness drear; His life is death who is not fortunate. I have no hope in fortune nor in fate, I have no hope in time, no hope in Heaven; I may not hope for solace to be given, Nor yet for good where evil is so great. Oh ye who feel what sorrow is, come, find In mine your consolation, when ye see Its strength, its vigour and alacrity; Then ye will see how far yours falls behind. Where are ye now, shepherds graceful and kind, Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio? What Do ye? Why come ye not? Why count ye not Mine greater far than troubles of your mind? But who is this who cometh into sight, Emerging at the crossing of yon path? Marsilio 'tis, whom Love as prisoner hath, The cause Belisa, her praise his delight. The fierce snake of disdain with cruel bite His soul doth ever gnaw and eke his breast, He spends his life in torment without rest, And yet not his but mine the blacker plight. He thinks the ill that makes his soul complain Is greater than the sorrow of my woe. Within this thicket 'twill be well to go, That I may see if he perchance complain. Alas! to think to match it with the pain That never leaves me is but vanity. The road mine opens that to ill draws nigh, Closing the pathway that doth bliss attain.