Unbroken by the blast
Unbroken by the blast are passion’s fibres.
The fibres of passion cling closely: even if cut, they are hard to sever:
When they are twined about the heart, then men are not masters of their own thoughts.
The soul is not integral: all that remains of it is a shred of frenzied passion.
If the love of both man and maid be frenzied, then, though their frenzy be death-set,
Even in death their hearts will find sweetness: for ‘twas not in vain that they were long acquainted.
But I sorely fear lest one lover be impassioned, while the other reck little thereof.
When love ends in malady, medicine can scarce heal it.
Then, though you be willing to die for his sake, he will give you small thanks.
Ah! Truly it savours ill.
Sooth I say: if you would die for him, test first passion’s truth: even thereafter it will be none too late.