SONNET

In a bloody sea of cruel revenge,
of rage, of anger and full of courage,
I ran a storm, of someone else's hope
to arrive in my state to see a bonanza;

and a sudden accident, a move
the chest frees the deadly poison,
and he who in my offense to my anger I condemn,
in forgiveness produces my hope.

No privacy moved me future,
than Fortune in her unequal works
it does not make memory of merits;

I owe more to my pity this luck,
and at least in such feats
glory remains from gentle action.