'Tis I who must renounce my love and go, Lest conflict grow between thyself and me; Yet had I shared with thee Cuchulain's love, My joy had been above all jealousy. Nay, happier were it here for me to dwell, Submitting well to thy supremacy, Than thus depart unto my Royal Seat Of Ard Abrat, strange though the thought to thee. The man is thine, Emer, in this love strife, O noble wife, from me he breaks away; Yet none the less I hunger for the bliss I now shall miss and miss and miss alway. Proud prince on prince has supplicated me In secrecy his passion's joy to share, With none of these have I a love tryst kept, But still have stepped stern-minded past the snare. Joyless is she who gives a heart's whole meed To him who no full heed thereto returns, Better for her indeed in death to pass, Than not be yearned for, as for him she yearns. With fifty women dost thou hither fare, Thou of the lustrous hair and lofty will, For Fand's o'erthrow? With all their tongues of scorn Is't well thy rival love-forlorn to kill? Three times a fifty women such as these Attend my ease, wise, marriageable, fair; They wait me now within my Royal Brugh, With pity's dew to calm my cruel care. |