All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:
Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,
I do become so shent
That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.
Afterward, calling with a sore lament
On Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”
And calling on her, I am comforted.
Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,
Come to me now whene’er I am alone;
So that I think the sight of me gives pain.