Chapter 28 No.28

Be it far from me to make complaint of love,

Love, without whom I will not happy be,

And though through him these weary toils I bear.

Yet what is given my will shall not reject.

Be clear the sky or dark, burning or cold,

To that one ph[oe]nix e'er the same I'll be,

No fate nor destiny can e'er untie

That knot which death unable