Daughter and Mother of horror and darkness and woe They cried, who sudden were struck blind, It pleased you then, so proud and harsh, To treat these wretched lovers, Who put themselves before you, Ready to consecrate to you their hearts. But when the sudden fury somewhat stayed, Which this new case had brought on them, Each one within himself withdrew, While rage to grief gave place; To her they turned for pity, With chosen words companioning their tears. Now if it please thee, gracious sorceress, If zeal for glory chance to move thy heart, Or milk of kindness soften it, Be merciful to us, And with thy magic herbs, Heal up the wound imprinted on our hearts. If wish to succour rules thy beauteous hand, Make no delay, lest some of us Unhappy ones reach death, ere we Praising thy act Can each one say, So much did she torment, yet more did heal. Then she replied: Oh curious prying minds, Take this my other fatal urn, Which my own hand may not unclose; Over the wide expanse of earth, Wander ye still, Search for and visit all the various kingdoms. Fate hath decreed, it ne'er shall be unclosed Till lofty wisdom, noble chastity And loveliness with these combined, Shall set their hands to it; All other efforts vain, To make this fluid open to the sky. Then should it chance to sprinkle beauteous hands, Of those who come anear for remedy, Its god-like virtues you may prove, And turning cruel pain Into a sweet content, Two lovely stars upon the earth you'll see. Meanwhile be none of you cast down or sad, Although long while in deep obscurity All that the heavens contain remain concealed, For good so great as this, No pain, however sharp, Can be accounted worthy of the cost. That Good to which through blindness you are led, Should make appear all other-having, vile, And every torment be as pleasure held, Who, hoping to behold Graces unique and rare, May hold in high disdain all other lights. Ah, weary ones! Too long, too long our limbs Have wandered o'er the terrene globe, So that to us it seems As if the shrewd wild beast, With false and flattering hopes, Our bosoms has encumbered with her wiles. Wretched henceforth, we see, though late, the witch Concerned to keep us all with promises (And for our greater hurt), at bay; For surely she believes No woman can be found Beneath the roof of heaven so dowered as she. Now that we know that every hope is vain, We yield to destiny and are content, Nor will withdraw from all our strivings sore; And staying not our steps, Though trembling, tired and vexed, We languish through the days that yet are ours.