To draw his final breath, to feel
Some mountain-heaving Titan's weight
Oppressing him, to owe his death
To some wild, raging beast. But no,
Poor soul, because of thine own hand
There is no deadly monster more.1215
What worthy author of thy death,
Save that right hand of thine, is left?
Hercules: Alas, what Scorpion, what Cancer, torn
From Summer's burning zone, inflames my breast?