Unto the bounds a healthy mind hath sought?
Could I but cleave this breast of mine in twain,
Could I but rob myself of dearest life,
That earth and Heaven, at last content, might deign
To leave me loyal 'midst my passion's strife,
Without my faltering when I feel the pain,
With mine own hand would I direct the knife
Against my breast, but if I die, there dies
His hope of love; the fire doth higher rise.
Let the blind god his golden arrows shower