Would I, that
horrors watch behind this
mask--
And drunk have I the
milk of my own
torment
Guilty in a
flesh-embroider'd cup--
Now hope to take a precious gift of You
Too
blissful to my dry and
bloodi'd lips?
My
soul a lashing
fire doth all
erode,
A well-deserved
scourge of a sweet
vengeance,
This
curse too straight from all my
slain forgot.
O'er
merciful waters bending now am I;
Thy
sip alone doth frightful
visions banish
And
bathe my mind in cool
oblivion.
Invoke Thee here, and rest myself in Lethe.