When thou art
there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes in death. O
sorrowful specter! On the banks of what stream wilt thou wander and
groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long journey and thou
hast one foot in the grave! Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried
to love. Ah! what wealth of love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what
dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou
committed that there should be placed in thy breast a fever that
consumes? What fury animates that blind creature who pushes thee into the
grave with his foot, while his lips speak to thee of love? What will
become of thee if thou livest! Is it not time? Is it not enough? What
proof canst thou give that will satisfy when thou, poor living proof, art
not believed? To what torture canst thou submit that thou hast not
already endured? By what torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease
insatiable love? Thou wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to
excite laughter; thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the
finger of scorn. Thou wilt lose all shame and even that appearance of
virtue which has been so dear to thee; and the man, for whom thou hast
disgraced thyself, will be the first to punish thee. He will reproach
thee for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and while
thy own friends are whispering about thee, he will listen to assure
himself that no word of pity is spoken; he will accuse thee of deceiving
him if another hand even then presses thine, and if, in the desert of thy
life, thou findest some one who can spare thee a word of pity in passing.
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