fool? Truly am I a fool, since I do not dare to say what I think;
for quickly would it turn to my bane. I have set my thought on
folly. Then is it not better for me to meditate in silence than
to get myself dubbed a fool? Never shall my desire be known. And
shall I hide the cause of my grief, and not dare to seek help or
succour for my sorrows? He who is conscious of weakness is a fool
if he does not seek that by which he may have health if he can
find it anywhere; but many a one thinks to gain his own advantage
and to win what he desires, who pursues that whereof he sorrows
later. And why should he go to seek advice when he does not
expect to find health? That were a vain toil! I feel my own ill
so heavy a burden that never shall I find healing for it by
medicine or by potion or by herb or by root. There is not a
remedy for every ill: mine is so rooted that it cannot be cured.
Cannot? Methinks I have lied. As soon as I first felt this evil,
if I had dared to reveal and to tell it, I could have spoken to a
leech, who could have helped me in the whole matter; but it is
very grievous for me to speak out. Perhaps they would not deign
to listen and would refuse to accept a fee. No wonder is it then
if I am dismayed, for I have a great ill; and yet I do not know
what ill it is which sways me nor do I know whence comes this
pain. I do not know? Yes, indeed, I think I know; Love makes me
feel this evil. How? Does Love, then, know how to do evil? Is he
not kind and debonair? I thought that there would have been
nought in Love which was not good; but I have found him very
malicious. He who has not put him to the test knows not with what
games Love meddles. He is a fool who goes to meet him; for always
he wishes to burden his subjects. Faith! his game is not at all a
good one. It is ill playing with him; for his sport will cause me
sorrow. What shall I do, then? Shall I draw back I think that