How alluring, wanton, strong the current
of this proud fire: it burns on, flames so
suddenly, to try to put it out is
to risk immolation--I'd repent the cure.
Deep within the bright flame my soul dissolves--
for this am I honored--so I don't care
how many tears my heart bleeds elsewhere, all
the time. I offer myself up against
my best interests. It's not the ravaging
maims: it's the independent thoughts that Love
converts into servile desire. Then
am I sick, my strength dispersed; waiting for
food, I lack energy to live, destroy
myself in chosen yet helpless anguish.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V XII:154. From B A2:50:80. I suggest this too was written before Pescara's death. Key