Death, with her savage wild dart, hurt herself

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

Amaro Lagrimar
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