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when in your memory, O cruelest triumph,

my suffering is smothered and erased.

I die, I die; and so that I may never

hope for a good end in my death or life

I will be steadfast in my vagaries,

say that true love is bound to succeed, say

the soul most enslaved to the ancient tyranny

of love, lives most free. Say that my enemy

is beautiful in body and in soul, that

I bear the blame for her forgetting me,

that love inflicts these sorrows and these ills

to keep his realm in order and at peace.

With this thought and a merciless cruel scourge

I will slash and cut the brief time left to me

by your disdain, and offer to the winds

this soul and body, uncrowned by the palm

or laurel of future bliss and joy to come.

You, whose unreason shows the reason clear

that forces me to end this weary life

grown hateful to me, can see the patent signs

of the fatal wound that cuts this heart in two,

and how I bend, submissive, to your will,

and if, by chance, you learn that I deserve

to have clouds fill the fair sky of your eyes

when you hear of my death, forbid it, for I

want you unrepentant, without remorse, when

I hand to you the ruins of my soul.

And then your laughter at that grievous time

will show my end was cause for your rejoicing;

what lack of wit to caution you in this,

when I know your brightest glory lies in seeing

that my life draws so quickly to its close.

Come, it is time for Tantalus to rise

with all his thirst from the abysmal deeps;

let Sisyphus come, bearing the awful weight

of that dread stone; let Tityus bring the vultures,

let Ixion hasten on the remorseless wheel,

and the grim sisters ceaseless at their toil;

may they pass their mortal torments to my breast,

and in hushed voices let them sadly chant

—if one in despair deserves such obsequies—

songs to a body not yet in its shroud.

And the three-faced guardian of the gates

of hell, chimeras, monsters by the thousands,

let them intone the dolorous counterpoint;

for there can be no better funeral rite

than this, I think, for one who dies of love.

Song of despair, do not weep at leaving me;

since that will swell the joy of one who is

the reason for your birth and my misfortune,

do not grieve for me even in the grave.

Those who had listened to Grisóstomo’s song thought it was very good, though the one who read it said he did not think it conformed to the accounts he had heard of Marcela’s virtue and modesty, because in it Grisóstomo complained of jealousy, suspicions, and absence, all to the detriment of Marcela’s good name and reputation. To which Ambrosio, as the one who knew best the most hidden thoughts of his friend, replied:

“Señor, so that you may free yourself of this doubt, you ought to know that when the unfortunate man wrote this song he was absent from Marcela; he had absented himself from her voluntarily, to see if absence would have its customary effects on him, and since there is nothing that does not vex the absent lover, and no fear that does not overwhelm him, Grisóstomo was as vexed by the jealousy he imagined and the suspicions he feared as if they had been real. And with this the truth of Marcela’s reputation for virtue remains unshaken; for aside from her being cruel, and somewhat arrogant, and very disdainful, envy itself cannot or should not find any fault in her.”

“That is true,” responded Vivaldo.

He wanted to read another of the papers he had rescued from the fire but was stopped by a marvelous vision—this is what it seemed to him—that suddenly appeared before his eyes; at the top of the crag where the grave was being dug, there came into view the shepherdess Marcela, whose beauty far surpassed her fame for beauty. Those who had not seen her before looked at her in amazement and silence, and those who were already accustomed to seeing her were no less thunderstruck than those who had not seen her until then. But no sooner had he seen her than Ambrosio, showing signs of outrage, said to her:

“Do you come, O savage basilisk of these mountains, to see if with your presence blood