As at a mystic, wonder-working shrine.
Am I this hour, so fallen from my high estate
That none, poor toiler, of the field,
Or they who serve at meat, or every Leasants
Cone, none are found so lowly born, or placed,
To do me honor. How I envy those
Whose lives were by the Sister Fates, designed
According to a set, and ordered plan.
A krongly wovnöeb of meoious worth,
That securely stayed with each well chosen stone
That are of value to the whole.
A harmony ofüt beauty and of strength.
My thread of life is but a flimsy string,
Of little worth. But on it gleams there yet,
Some process jewels, with lack lustre paste
Hap hazard strung by a too careless hand,
Along it’s tangled length.
(going up)
I envy him whose days,ⱥucceeding days,
Brings homely duties and well earned repose.
I long like him to que¬
of'dull restine, and smiling lay me_down
To rest at nightfall. Metamorphoses
So swift and sudden as have been my lot
told naught of worth. 'Tis vain to be
Today a God, on high Olympus and tomorrow
A grinnng ape. A sorry jest for lowns.
And most I envy him, Bologna a Duke.
Bentigvoglio who celebrates so soon,
His marriage and so may lack his thirst
At clear, unsullied pool where e er he will.
The day's work never presses him too hard
Nor do his hours e'er lag dulled by satiety.
To be like him, held blameless, though my feet
Had troadden upon men, as they were grass,
beneath them. Till my sandals were...moist through
With the wet dew of broken lives.
To dare to do it I should like above all things.
And should anyone oppose me appearing as an svenger,
I'd laugh him to soon, as if he were a foot,
Yet such audacity becomes me not. Thy gentleness
Heaps coals of fire upon my head. Tell me,
In what guise dost thou here appear?
If it is not but to avenue your wrongs?
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