 | In Russet & Silver |  |
143
FROM THE SPANISH OF CERVANTES
When I was marked for suffering, Love forsworeAll knowledge of my doom; or else at ease
Love grows a cruel tyrant, hard to please;
Or else a chastisement exceeding sore
A little sin hath brought me. Hush! no more!
Love is a god! all things he knows and sees,
And gods are bland and mild! Who then decrees
The dreadful woe I bear and yet adore?
If I should say, O Chloë, that 'twas thou
I should speak falsely, since, being wholly good
Like Heaven itself, from thee no ill may come.
There is no hope; I must die shortly now,
Not knowing why, since sure no witch hath brewed
The drug that might avert my martyrdom.
| In Russet & Silver | |