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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 |
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Notes: V XXXIII:193 From B S1:70:120. No MS's; Valgrisi 71. Key |
