Thy words are torture to me, that scarce grieve thee-- That entire death shall null my entire thought; And I feel torture, not that I believe thee, But that I cannot disbelieve thee not. Shall that of me that now contains the stars Be by the very contained stars survived? Thus were Fate all unjust. Yet what truth bars An all unjust Fate`s truth from being believed? Conjecture cannot fit to the seen world A garment of its thought untorn or covering, Or with its stuffed garb forge an otherworld Without itself its dead deceit discovering; So, all being possible, an idle thought may Less idle thoughts, self-known no truer, dismay.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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