If spent are the illusions and brief hopes
I once had for this earthly life, if threats
and bribes, alluring flattery, hate, love,
cannot alter my heart, if I don't long
to own things, do not fear to lose them, why
laugh like this and then cry helplessly for
hours and hours, a prey to nature,
my own, to emotions I can't control.
I make mistakes, drink the poison, pity
which then grips me. I taste the evil tree's
bitter fruit still, whose deadly seed sickens
flowers, and kills leaves. May an endless flame
consume the festering worm secreted
deep in my bowels, and bred in my bed.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V XXXIII:193 From B S1:70:120. No MS's; Valgrisi 71. Key