Love presents
before his mind her for whom he is in such distress; it is she
who has filched his heart away, and grants him no rest upon his
bed, because, forsooth, he delights to recall the beauty and the
grace of her who, he has no hope, will ever bring him any joy.
"I may as well hold myself a madman." he exclaims. "A madman?
Truly, I am beside myself, when I dare not speak what I have in
mind; for it would speedily fare worse with me (if I held my
peace). I have engaged my thoughts in a mad emprise. But is it
not better to keep my thoughts to myself than to be called a
fool? My wish will never then be known. Shall I then conceal
the cause of my distress, and not dare to seek aid and healing
for my wound? He is mad who feels himself afflicted, and seeks
not what will bring him health, if perchance he may find it
anywhere; but many a one seeks his welfare by striving for his
heart's desire, who pursues only that which brings him woe
instead. And why should one ask for advice, who does not expect
to gain his health? He would only exert himself in vain. I feel
my own illness to be so grievous that I shall never be healed by
any medicine or draught, by any herb or root. For some ills
there is no remedy, and mine lies so deep within that it is
beyond the reach of medicine.
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