Albanio

Love, love that doth deny All comfort,—Love desires that I should die; Knowing too well that for a little while The mere relation would my grief beguile, More swiftly to destroy, the God unjust Has now deprived my bosom of the gust Which late it had, to candidly avow, And thus conclude its sorrows; so that now It neither does become thy truth to seek For farther knowledge, nor myself to speak,— Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed, And who alone in dying look for rest.