Ballate
BALLATA XIII
For naught save pity do I pray thy youth
That thou have care for Mercy’s castaway
Lo, Deaths upon me in his battle array!
And my soul finds him in his decadence
So over-wearied by that spirit wried
(For whom thou car’st not till his ways be tried,
Showing thyself thus wise in ignorance
To hold him hostile) that I pray that mover
And victor and slayer of every hard-wrought thing
That ere mine end he show him conquering.
Sith at his blows, who holds life in despite,
Thou seest clear how in my barbed distress
He wounds me there where dwells mine humbleness,
Till my soul living turneth in my sight
To speech, in words that grievous sighs o’ercover.
Until mine eyes see worth’s self wavering
Grant me thy mercies for my covering!
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