And in thy sorrow I no help can be—
My own poor heart is in a piteous state.
Come with sweet words—ah! come and doctor me,
And lift from off my heart this dolorous weight.
If thou come not, then none can pardon thee:
Go not to Rome for shrift; it is too late.
The Calabrian Greek has more than his share of the pangs of unrequited love; that it is so he assures us with an iteration that must prove convincing. Still, some balm is left in Gilead. Even at Bova there are maidens who do not think it essential to their dignity to act the rôle of Eunica. The poorest herdsman, the humblest shepherd, has a chance of getting listened to; a poor, bare chance perhaps, but one which unlocks the door to as much of happiness as there is in the world. At least the accepted lover in the mountains of Calabria would be unwilling to admit that there exists a greater felicity than his. If he goes without shoes, still "love is enough:"
Little I murmur against my load of woe—
Our love will never fail, nor yet decline;
For to behold thy form contents me so,