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Updated: August 7, 2024
An orb in her left hand she bears, For all the world her power must feel; There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame Halts with her foot the whirling wheel. But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare, Lest Adelifa should be moved With jealous rage, to learn that he Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved.
I strangle, in the sudden thrall Of this sharp pang of agony, Oh, hold me, Tarfe, lest I fall." Thus Adelifa weeping cried At thought of Abenamar's quest: In Moorish Tarfe's arms she fell, And panting lay upon his breast.
Happy if when thy snare availed to make the prize thine own, Thou hadst secured the golden cage before the bird was flown. For scarce thy hurrying footsteps from Tarfe's garden came, Ere thou boastedst of thine hour of bliss, and of my lot of shame.
In the chapel of the Marquis of Tarfe's palace, after looking dumbfounded at the great throng of nobility that had gathered for his son's wedding, the old man, standing in the doorway, began to cry: "Now I can die, O Lord. Now I can die!" And he repeated his sad desire, without noticing the laughter of the servants, as if, after a life of toil, happiness were the inevitable forerunner of death.
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