XXXIX.
She, fixed and stupid in her wretchedness,
Stood on the shifting sand, with ruffled hair:
Her hands were joined, her lips were motionless,
Her languid eyes upturned, as in despair,
Accusing him on high, that to distress
And whelm her, all the fates united were.
Astound she stood awhile; when grief found vent
Through eyes and tongue, in tears and in lament:
XL.
“Fortune, what more remains, that thou on me
“Shouldst not now satiate thy revengeful thirst?
“What more (she said) can I bestow on thee
“Than, what thou seekest not, this life accurst?
“Thou wast in haste to snatch me from the sea,
“Where I had ended its sad days, immersed;
“Because to torture me with further ill
“Before I die, is yet thy cruel will.
XLI.
“But what worse torment yet remains in store
“Beyond, I am unable to descry:
“By thee from my fair throne, which nevermore
“I hope to repossess, compelled to fly;
“I, what is worse, my honour lost deplore;
“For if I sinned not in effect, yet I
“Give matter by my wanderings to be stung
“For wantonness of every carping tongue.
