Cursed be the very moment, hour and day Week, month and year, in which, with guile unmatched, My lady played me false, and fiercely snatched At one fell swoop my peace of mind away; Then wrapped my heart about, to my dismay, With malice, wrath, disgust, and such distress That now I think that I would suffer less If in a furnace it were burned away. Yet since the bad is better than the worse (Though neither of them suits me very well), I’ll bear as best I can with present woe. Upon my soul’s account I write this verse; For were I not so terrified of hell, I should have killed myself some time ago.