But I from land to land still wander on,
Scourged by the wrath of Heaven’s relentless Queen.
Thou hast my tale; the sequel, if thou know’st it,
Is thine to tell; but do not seek, I pray thee,
In pity for me, to drop soft lies; for nothing
Is worse than the smooth craft of practised phrase.
Chorus.
Enough, enough! Woe’s me that ever
Such voices of strange grief should rend my ear!
That such a tale of woe,