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THE ORLANDO FURIOSO.
CANTO XXXI.
I.
What sweeter, gladder, state could be possest
Than falls to the enamoured bosom’s share?
What happier mode of life, what lot more blest,
Than evermore the chains of love to wear?
Were not the lover, ’mid his joys, distrest
By that suspicious fear, that cruel care,
That martyrdom, which racks the suffering sprite,
That phrensied rage, which jealousy is hight.
II.
For by all bitters else which interpose
Before enjoyment of this choicest sweet,
Love is augmented, to perfection grows,
And takes a finer edge; to drink and eat,
Hunger and thirst the palate so dispose,
And flavour more our beverage and our meat.
Feebly that wight can estimate the charms
Of peace, who never knew the pain of arms.
