Cord. Distressed pilgrim, whose dark clouded eyes
Speak thee a martyr to love's cruelties,
Amor. What pitying voice I hear,
Calls back my flying steps?
Cord. Pr'ythee, draw near.
Amor. I shall but say, kind swain, what doth become
Of a lost heart, ere to Elysium
It wounded walks?
Cord. First, it does freely flye
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem