That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Verona bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
What better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day”—
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away,
My love, and all the glory of the stars.
