Teresa monologue (Act 3) — Poems, translated and original

I cannot write to him! If I would guide The pen, my hand refuses to record The tale it ought to tell. Oh, fatal hand! Which soon must seal my shame, well dost thou shrink To do the accusing office!--Foscarini! Yet may I breathe that name! the walls about me Will not yet hear it as a guilty sound, But softly echo back the whispered word, As if their stones could pity!-- To-night! to-night! I’m strangely calm. So long I’ve pondered on it, It seems that even despair has lost its keenness, And only sits a thick and leaden weight Upon my soul. I’ve wept, alas! so much, The founts of grief are dry, and will not yield A drop to soften me!