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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 |
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Notes: V XXXV:35. From Bullock A1:26:16. See also R XXXV:235. Translation: Therault, 185. Key |
