And to this misery shall I come, I ween.
The earth will cry aloud, forbidding me
To touch her soil, to pass its waves, the sea,
And every fountain whence the rivers flow.
Thus like Ixions, on the whirling wheel
In chains, will be my stake: and this were best,
That never Grecian might behold me more,
With whom in better days I have been happy.
Why therefore should I live? What blessing were it
To gain a useless and unhallowed life?"