Oibò.
Mild Death, to thee I pray, 'n' dream of thee;
And yet I love thee not. A fierce contempt
And yet I love thee not. A fierce contempt
Thy brother, Love, awoken hath in me;
He petrify'd me more than all your might;
So, remov'd from the latter, I diverted
To the former my eyes. But shall a father
Love his worst son, because the best has died?
So, remov'd from the latter, I diverted
To the former my eyes. But shall a father
Love his worst son, because the best has died?
[cosa non ci viene in mente mentre nuotiamo.]
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