Keep the promise you have made.
I doubt it not. Now ask yourself my feeling
When for the second time (for once already
I’d pardoned him) he put me under sword
And I must say to me:—“Your shadow’s liker
Your proper self than that wry twisted image
He bears of you far in his inmost depths.”
’Twas that I would not bear, and could I so?
I made to grasp my dagger, and prevented
From rash-essayed self-murder, I then swore—