Lxxxvii

Hadst thou, with all thy loveliness, been true, Had I, with all my tenderness, been strong, We had not made this ruin out of life, This desolation in a world of joy, My poor Gorgo.

Yet even the high gods at times do err; Be therefore thou not overcome with woe, But dedicate anew to greater love An equal heart, and be thy radiant self Once more, Gorgo.