The angry heart explodes, bears off in blaze
The indignant soul, and I'm combustion-ripe.
Why, you intend to do your worst with me!
That's in your eyes! You dare no more than death,
And mean no less. I must make up my mind!
So Pietro—when I chased him here and there,
Morsel by morsel cut away the life
I loathed—cried for just respite to confess
And save his soul: much respite did I grant!
Why grant me respite who deserve my doom?