And my bosom with thoughts of my happiness burns.
The portress compliant—the way cleared before—
A touch of my finger throws open the door:
Then, Chrysis—fair Chrysis, will rush to my arms,
Will court my caresses, and yield all her charms.
Such transport will seize me when this comes to pass,
I’ll Fortune herself in good fortune surpass.”
“O, could complaints or tears avail
To cure those ills which life assail,
Even gold would not be price too dear