He stands alone,

Fate marks him for her own.

No more; for like the southern blast

When lightnings flash, his rage is past.

But, now he is himself again,

Reviving memory brings new pain.

What keener anguish than to know

Thyself sole cause of self-wrought woe?

Nay, if he have surcease, good hope is mine

All may be well, for men are less concerned

With evil doing when the trouble’s past.

Come tell me, which wouldst choose, if choice were free,

To vex thy friends while thou thyself wert glad,

Or share the pain, grieving with them that grieve?

The twofold sorrow, lady, is the worse.

Then are we losers now our plague is past.

What meanest thou? it passes my poor wit.

Yon man, while stricken, had himself delight

In his sick fancies, though his presence grieved

Us who were sane; but now that he is whole,

Eased of his frenzy, he is racked with grief,