From its high peak I'll hurl me down to death.
May I be rent asunder on its crags,
And every rock demand some part of me;
Let sharp projections pierce my mangled hands,
And all the rugged mountainside be red865
With blood. One death is not enough, 'tis true;
But still its agony can be prolonged.
O hesitating soul, thou canst not choose
What form of death to die. Oh, that the sword
Of Hercules within my chamber hung!