Whenever I was told a Florentine, Egged on by anguish into desperation, Had hanged himself beyond reanimation, I saw it as a miracle divine; But now it seems as natural and in line As that some marble-cutter, passing by After the dusty day that leaves him dry, Should ease his gullet with a cup of wine. For since I’ve borne with such unhappiness, I feel the pangs of death are surely less, Less by a thousand times. So I’ll not palter. I’ll prove at once how great is my despair, Far greater than this sonnet can declare, By means of nothing but a simple halter.
translated by: C.H. Scott and Anthony Mortimer