If I die in your arms, Madame

If I die in your arms, Madame,

it will be enough, for I crave

no greater honour

than to surrender my soul in your embrace.

The man who is terribly excited by Mars

Can go to war, and [little in strength

And young of years], gambol about till he receives

In his chest a Spanish blade;

But me, I'm colder, I don't want to die, unless it's

In a hundred years, without glory, without renown,

Dying idly in your lap, Cassandra.

For I fool myself that it's more fortunate

To die thus, than to have all the honour

Of warlike Alexander, but to live only a little.