The thoughts are broken in my memory,
Thou lovely Joy, whene’er I see thy face;
When thou art near me, Love fills up the space,
Often repeating, “If death irk thee, fly.”
My face shows my heart’s colour, verily,
Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place;
Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace,
The very stones seem to be shrieking, “Die!”
It were a grievous sin, if one should not