It is fitting to hate and blame and
despise myself, even as in fact I do. Whoever loses his bliss
and contentment through fault or error of his own ought to hate
himself mortally. He ought to hate and kill himself. And now,
when no one is looking on, why do I thus spare myself? Why do I
not take my life? Have I not seen this lion a prey to such grief
on my behalf that he was on the point just now of thrusting my
sword through his breast? And ought I to fear death who have
changed happiness into grief? Joy is now a stranger to me. Joy?
What joy is that? I shall say no more of that, for no one could
speak of such a thing; and I have asked a foolish question. That
was the greatest joy of all which was assured as my possession,
but it endured for but a little while. Whoever loses such joy
through his own misdeed is undeserving of happiness."
(Vv. 3563-3898.) While he thus bemoaned his fate, a lorn damsel
in sorry plight, who was in the chapel, saw him and heard his
words through a crack in the wall. As soon as he was recovered
from his swoon, she called to him: "God," said she, "who is that
I hear? Who is it that thus complains?" And he replied: "And
who are you?" "I am a wretched one," she said, "the most
miserable thing alive.
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