Before myself I tremble, all my members quake,
When lips and nose I mark, and both the hollow caves
Of my eyes blind with waking, sorrow-laden waves
Of painful wrath, my eyelids scarce in life awake.

My tongue, black with the fever brand, doth halt and shake
And stammer,—what I know not; tired my spirit raves
Towards the great Consoler; with the reek of graves
My flesh stinks, and the doctors go, and pain comes back…

My corpse is nothing more than veins and skin and bone;
To dare sit up is death, 'tis torment to be prone;
My ankles crave for someone who will carry them.

What skill me honour, art, and youth and a great name,
When this hour comes, when all is turned to smoke and flame,
When for one need, in spite of all, one is undone?