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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 |
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Notes: V XII:154. From B A2:50:80. I suggest this too was written before Pescara's death. Key |
