S'Amor non è, che dunque è quel ch'i'sento?
If 'tis not Love, what is it then I feel?
But if 'tis love, Great God what passion's this?
If good—why does it wound like mortal steel?
If ill—why are its torments so like bliss?
If willingly I burn—I grieve amiss;—
And if unwillingly, 'tis vain lamenting—
O! living death! O! torturing happiness!
How canst thou sway me thus, I not consenting?
And if I do consent,—I mourn in vain:—
Thus my frail, helmless bark, at random turning
Her course, with winds in conflict—o'er the main
Drives, error-laden, on—all wisdom spurning;
Nor what I wish, can I myself explain,
Trembling in summer, and in winter burning!
But if 'tis love, Great God what passion's this?
If good—why does it wound like mortal steel?
If ill—why are its torments so like bliss?
If willingly I burn—I grieve amiss;—
And if unwillingly, 'tis vain lamenting—
O! living death! O! torturing happiness!
How canst thou sway me thus, I not consenting?
And if I do consent,—I mourn in vain:—
Thus my frail, helmless bark, at random turning
Her course, with winds in conflict—o'er the main
Drives, error-laden, on—all wisdom spurning;
Nor what I wish, can I myself explain,
Trembling in summer, and in winter burning!
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