Death, with her savage wild dart, hurt herself
when she thought to eclipse his bright clear light,
more alive in Paradise, on earth rare--
for, killing him, she lit deathless splendor.
So, angry at me, she picked up her dart,
but saw I'd take the bitter blow as sweet,
so gave no more: but as I live with her,
I learn what war is, what strange contentions.
If I place in her hands my lifeless life,
say, hers, Victoria, proud victory,
the felicity of easy death, mine,
she invents an unheard-of pitiless
revenge--abandons me--a life bereft--
if she disdains me, what hope can I have?
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V XXXV:35. From Bullock A1:26:16. See also R XXXV:235. Translation: Therault, 185. Key