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Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sonnets 3. Who so list to hount: I know where is an hynd, But, as for me: helas, I may no more. The vayne travail hath werid me so sore, I ame of theim, that farthest cometh behinde Yet, may I by no means, my weried mynde Drawe from the Der; but as she fleeth afore Faynting I folowe. I leve of therefore: Sins in a nett I seeke to hold the wynde. Who list her hount: I put him out of dowbte: As well as I: may spend his time in vain. And graven with Diamonds in letters plain: There is written, her faier neck rounde abowte: ”Noli me tangere for Cesars I ame And wylde for to hold: though I seme tame.” 12. I fynde no peace and all my warr is done, I fere and hope, I burn and freise like yse, I fley above the wynde, yet can I not arrise, And noght I have and all the worold I seson; That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison; And holdeth me not; yet can I scape nowise: Nor letteth me live nor dye at my devise: And yet of deth it gyveth me occasion. Withoute Iyen I se; and without tong I plain: I desire to perisshe, and yet I aske helthe; I love an othr: and thus I hate myself; I fede me in sorrowe: and laugh in all my pain: Likewise displeaseth me both deth and lyff: And my delite is causer of this stryff. 14. My galy charged with forgetfulnes, Thorrough sharpe sees, in wynter nyghtes doeth pas, ’Twene Rock and Rock: and eke myn enemy, alas, That is my Lorde, sterith with cruelnes. And every owre a thought in redines: As tho that deth were light in such a case; An endles wynd doeth tere the sayll a pase, Of forced sightes and trusty ferefulnes. A rayn of teris: a clowde of derk disdain, Hath done the wered cordes great hinderaunce: Wrethed with error and eke with ignoraunce. The starres be hid that led me to this pain: Drowned is reason that should me comfort: And I remain dispering of the port.

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Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophil and Stella 1. Louing in trueth, and fayne in verse my loue to show, That she, deare Shee, might take som pleasure of my paine, Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pittie winne, and pity grace obtaine, I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inuentions fine, her wits to entertaine, Oft turning others leaues, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitfull showers vpon my sun-burnd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Inuentions stay; Inuention, Natures childe, fledde step-dame Studies blowes; And others feet still seemde but strangers in my way. Thus, great with childe to speak, and helplesse in my throwes, Biting my trewand pen, beating myselfe for spite, “Fool,” said my Muse to me, “looke in thy heart, and write.”

5. It is most true that eyes are form’d to serue The inward light, and that the heauenly part Ought to be King, from whose rules who do swerue, Rebels to nature, striue for their owne smart. It is most true, what we call Cupids dart An image is, which for ourselues we carue, And, foolse, adore in temple of our hart, Till that good god make church and churchmen starue. True, that true beautie virtue is indeed, Whereof this beautie can be but a shade, Which, elements with mortal mixture breed. True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soule up to our countrey moue: True, and yet true that I must Stella loue. 31. With how sad steps, O Moone, thou climbst the skies! How silently, and with how wanne a face! What, may it be that euen in heau’nly place That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries? Sure, if that long-with-loue-acquainted eyes Can iudge of loue, thou feel’st a louers case, I reade it in thy lookes: thy languist grace, To me that feele the like, thy state discries. Then, eu’n of fellowship, O Moone, tell me, Is constant loue deem’d there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they aboue loue to be lou’d, and yet Those louers scorn whom that loue doth possesse? Do they call vertue there vngratefulnesse?

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Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophil and Stella 71. Who will in fairest booke of Nature know How vertue may best lodg’d in Beautie be, Let him but learne of Loue to reade in thee, Stella, those faire lines which true goodnesse show. There shall he find all vices ouerthrow, Not by rude force, but sweetest soueraigntie Of reason, from whose light those night-birds flie, That inward sunne in thine eyes shineth so. And, not content to be Perfections heire Thy selfe, doest striue all minds that way to moue, Who marke in thee what is in thee most faire: So while thy beautie drawes the heart to loue, As fast thy vertue bends that loue to good: But, ah, Desire still cries, Giue me some food. Edmund Spenser, Amoretti 1. Happy ye leaues when as those lilly hands, which hold my life in their dead doing might shall handle you and hold in loues soft bands, lyke captiues trembling at the victors sight. And happy lines, on which with starry light, those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look and reade the sorrowes of my dying spright, written with teares in harts close bleeding book. And happy rymes bath’d in the sacred brooke, of Helicon whence she deriued is, when ye behold that Angels blessed looke, my soules long lacked foode, my heauens blis. Leaues, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone, whom if ye please, I care for other none. 15. Ye tradefull Merchants that with weary toyle, do seeke most pretious things to make your gain: and both the Indias of their treasures spoile, what needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine? For loe my loue doth in her selfe containe all this worlds riches that may farre be found; if Saphyres, loe her eies be Saphyres plaine, if Rubies, loe hir lips be Rubies found; If Pearles, hir teeth be pearles both pure and round; if Yuorie, her forhead yuory weene; if Gold, her locks are finest gold on ground; if siluer, her faire hands are siluer sheene, But that which fairest is, but few behold, her mind adornd with vertues manifold.

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Edmund Spenser, Amoretti

30. My loue is lyke to yse, and I to fyre; how comes it then that this her cold so great is not dissolu’d through my so hot desyre, but harder growes the more I her intreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat is not delayd by her hart frosen cold: but that I burne much more in boyling sweat, and feel my flames augmented manifold? What more miraculous thing may be told that fire which all things melts, should harden yse: and yse which is congeald with sencelesse cold, should kindle fyre by wonderfull deuyse. Such is the powre of loue in gentle mind, that it can alter all the course of kynd.

34. Lyke as a ship, that through the Ocean wyde, by conduct of some star doth make her way, whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde, out of her course doth wander far astray. So I whose star, that wont with her bright ray, me to direct, with cloudes is ouer-cast, doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay, through hidden perils round about me plast. Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past, My Helice the lodestar of my lyfe will shine again, and looke on me at last, with louely light to cleare my cloudy grief. Till then I wander carefull comfortlesse, in secret sorrow and sad pensiuenesse.

54. Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay, My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits beholding me that all the pageants play, disguysing diuersly my troubled wits. Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion fits, and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy: soone after when my ioy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a Tragedy. Yet she beholding me with constant eye, delights not in my merth no[r] rues my smart: but when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry she laughes, and hardens euermore her hart. What then can moue her? if nor merth, nor mone, she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.

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Edmund Spenser, Amoretti

59. Thrise happie she, that is so well assured Vnto her selfe and setled so in hart: that nether will for better be allured, ne feard with worse to any chaunce to start, But like a steddy ship doth strongly part the raging waues, and keepes her course aright: ne ought for tempest doth from it depart, ne ought for fayrer weathers false delight. Such selfe assurance need not feare the spight, of grudging foes, ne fauour seek of friends: but in the stay of her owne stedfast might, nether to one her selfe nor other bends. Most happy she that most assured doth rest, but he most happy who such one loues best.

63. After long stormes and tempests sad assay, Which hardly I endured heretofore: in dread of death and daungerous dismay, with which my silly barke was tossed sore. I doe at length descry the happy shore, in which I hope ere long for to arryue, fayre soyle it seemes from far & fraught with store of all that deare and daynty is alyue. Most happy he that can at last atchyue the ioyous safety of so sweet a rest: whose least delight sufficeth to depriue remembrance of all paines which him opprest. All paines are nothing in respect of this, all sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse.

64. Comming to kisse her lyps, (such grace I found) Me seemd I smelt a gardin of sweet flowres: that dainty odours from them threw around for damzels fit to decke their louers bowres. Her lips did smell lyke vnto Gillyflowers, her ruddy cheekes, lyke vnto Roses red: her snowy browes lyke budded Bellamoures her louely eyes lyke Pincks but newly spred, Her goodly bosome lyke a Strawberry bed, her neck lyke to a bounch of Cullambynes: her brest lyke lillyes, ere theyr leaues be shed, her nipples lyke yong blossomd Iessemynes, Such fragrant flowres doe giue most odorous smell, but her sweet odour did them all excell.

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Edmund Spenser, Amoretti

67. Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace, Seeing the game from him escapt away: sits downe to rest him in some shady place, with panting hounds beguiled of their pray. So after long pursuit and vaine assay, when I all weary had the chace forsooke, the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way, thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke. There she beholding me with mylder looke, sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide: till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke, and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde. Strange thing me seemd to see a beast so wyld, so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld. 75. One day I wrote her name vpon the strand, but came the waues and washed it away: agayne I wrote it with a second hand, but came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay, a mortall thing so to immortalize. for I my selue shall lyke to this decay, and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize. Not so, (quod I) let baser things deuize, to dy in dust, but you shall liue by fame: my verse your vertues rare shall eternize, and in the heuens wryte your glorious name. Where whenas death shall all the world subdew, our loue shall liue, and later life renew. 77. Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne, a goodly table of pure yvory: all spred with iuncats, fit to entertayne, the greatest Prince with pompous roialty. Mongst which there in a siluer dish did ly, twoo golden apples of vnualewd price: far passing those which Hercules came by, or those which Atalanta did entice. Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice, That many sought yet none could euer taste, sweet fruit of pleasure brought from paradice: By loue himselfe and in his garden plaste. Her brest that table was so richly spredd, my thoughts the guests, which would thereon haue fedd.

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Francesco Petrarca—Rime, CXC Francesco Petrarca—In Vita, XC Una candida cerva sopra l’erba Pace non trovo e non ò da far guerra, verde m’apparve, con duo corna d’oro, e temo e spero, et ardo e son un ghiaccio, fra due riviere, all’ombra d’un alloro, e volo sopra’l cielo e giaccio in terra, levando’l sole, a la stagione acerba. e nulla stringo, e tutto’l mondo abraccio. Era sua vista sí dolce superba, Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra, ch’i’lasciai per seguirla ogni lavoro; né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio, come l’avaro, che’n cercar tesoro, e non m’ancide Amore e non mi sferra, con diletto l’affano disacerba. né mi vuol vivo né mi trae d’impacio. ‘Nessun mi tocchi -al bel collo d’intorno Veggio senza occhi e non ò lingua e grido, scritto avea di diamanti e di topazî- e bramo di perir e cheggio aita, libera farmi al mio Cesare parve’. e ò in odio me stesso ed amo altrui. Et era’l sol già vòlto al mezzo giorno; Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido, Gli occhi miei stanchi di mirar non sazî, egualmente mi spiace morte e vita: Quand’io caddi nel’acqua, et ella sparve. in questo stato son, Donna, per vui. Francesco Petrarca—In Vita, CXXXVII Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sonnet Passa la nave mia colma d’oblio 14. My galley, chargéd with forgetfulness, per aspro mare, a mezza notte, il verno Through sharp seas, in winter nights doth pass enfra Scilla e Caribdi; et al governo ’Tween rock and rock; and eke mine enemy, alas, siede’l signore, anzi’l nimico mio; That is my Lord steereth with cruelness. a ciascun remo un penser pronto e rio And every oar a thought in readiness, che la tempesta e’l fin par ch’abbi a scherno; As though that death were light in such a case. la vela rompe un vento umido, eterno An endless wind doth tear the sail apace di sospir, di speranze e di desio; Of forcéd sighs and trusty fearfulness. pioggia di lagrimar, nebbia di sdegni A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, bagna e rallenta le già stanche sarte, Hath done the wearied cords great hinderance, che son d’error con ignoranzia attorto. Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance. Celansi i duo mei dolci usati segni; The stars be hid that led me to this pain, morta fra l’onde è la ragion e l’arte: Drownéd is reason that should me consort, tal ch’i’’ncomincio a desperar del porto. And I remain despairing of the port. El Brocense Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, Sonnet Pasa mi nave el mar, de olvido llena, Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green, a media noche, y en cruel invierno, Or where his beams may not dissolve the ice, por Scila y por Caribde, y al gobierno In temp’rate heat, where he is felt and seen; preside el señor mío, que es mi pena; With proud people, in presence sad and wise; a cada remo un pensamiento suena Set me in base or yet in high degree, que tal tormenta tiene por mal tierno; In the long night or in the shortest day, la vela rompe un viento de ¡ay! eterno, In clear weather or where mists thickest be, y de deseo, y de esperanza buena; In lost youth or when my hairs be grey; lluvia de lloro y niebla de la afrenta Set me in earth, in heaven, or yet in hell, las jarcias con errores retorcidas In hill, in dale, or in the foaming flood; y ya casi podridas humedece. Thrall or at large, alive whereso I dwell, Y estas mis dos lumbreras ascondidas, Sick or in health, in ill fame or in good: arte y razón perdidas, en tormenta Yours will I be, and with that only thought tal, que ya mi esperanza desfallece. Comfort myself, when that my hap is naught.

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Shakespeare--Sonnets, 1 Shakespeare--Sonnets, 73 From faireſt creatures we deſire increaſe, That time of yeeare thou maiſt in me behold, That thereby beauties Roſe might neuer die, When yellow leaues, or none, or few, doe hange But as the riper ſhould by time deceaſe Vpon thoſe boughes which ſhake againſt the could, His tender heire might beare his memory: Bare rn’wd quiers where late the ſweet birds ſang. But thou contracted to thine owne bright eyes, In me thou ſeeſt the twi-light of ſuch day, Feed’ſt thy lights flame with ſelf-ſubſtantial fewell, As after Sun-ſet fadeth in the Weſt, Making a famine where aboundance lies, Which by and by blacke night doth take away, Thy ſelfe thy foe, to thy ſweet ſelfe too cruell: Deaths ſecond ſelfe that ſeals vp all in reſt. Thou that art now the worlds freſh ornament, In me thou ſeeſt the glowing of ſuch fire, And only herauld to the gaudy ſpring, That on the aſhes of his youth doth lye, Within thine owne bud burieſt thy content, As the deathbed, whereon it muſt expire, And tender chorle, makſt waſt in niggarding: Conſum’d with that which it was nurriſht by. Pitty the world, or elſe this glutton be, This thou perceu’ſt, which makes thy loue more ſtrong, To eate the worlds due, by the graue and thee. To loue that well, which thou muſt leaue ere long. Shakespeare--Sonnets, 116 Shakespeare--Sonnets, 117 Let me not to the marriage of true mindes Accuſe me thus, that I haue ſcanted all, Admit impediments, loue is not loue Wherein I ſhould your great deſerts repay, Which alters when it alteration findes, Forgot vpon your deareſt loue to call, Or bends with the remouer to remoue. Whereto al bonds do tie me day by day, O no, it is an euer fixed marke That I haue frequent binne with vnknown mindes That lookes on tempeſts and is neuer ſhaken; And giuen to time your owne deare purchaſ’d right, It is the ſtar to euery wandring barke, That I haue hoyſted ſaile to al the windes Whoſe worths vnknowne, although his higth be taken. Which ſhould tranſport me fartheſt from your ſight. Lou’s not Times foole, though roſie lips and cheeks Booke both my wilfulneſſe and errors downe, Within his bending ſickles compaſſe come, And on iuſt proofe ſurmiſe accumilate, Loue alters not with his breefe houres and weekes, Bring me within the leuel of your frowne, But bears it out euen to the edge of doome: But ſhoote not at me in your wakened hate: If this be error, and vpon me proued, Since my appeale ſaies I did ſtriue to prooue I neuer writ, nor no man euer loued. The conſtancy and virtue of your loue. Shakespeare--Sonnets, 129 Shakespeare—Sonnets, 138 Th’expence of Spirit in a waſte of ſhame When my loue ſweares that ſhe is made of truth, Is luſt in action, and till action, luſt I do beleeue her though I know ſhe lyes, Is periurd, murdrous, blouddy full of blame, That ſhe might thinke me ſome vntuterd youth, Sauage, extreame, rude, cruell, not to truſt, Vnlearned in the worlds falſe ſubtilties. Inioyd no ſooner but diſpiſed ſtraight, Thus vainely thinking that ſhe thinkes me young, Pasſt reaſon hunted, and no ſooner had Although ſhe knowes my dayes are paſt the beſt, Paſt reaſon hated as a ſwollowed bayt, Simply I credit her falſe ſpeaking tongue, On purpoſe layd to make the taker mad. On both ſides thus is ſimple truth ſuppreſt: Made in purſut and in poſſeſſion ſo, But wherefore ſayes ſhe not ſhe is vniuſt? Had, hauing, and in queſt to haue extreame, And wherefore ſay not I that I am old? A bliſſe in proofe and proud and very wo, O loues beſt habit is in ſeeming truſt, Before a ioy propoſed behind a dreame, And age in loue loues not t’haue yeares told. All this the world well knowes yet none knowes well, Therefore I lye with her, and ſhe with me, To ſhun the heauen that leads men to this hell. And in our faults by lyes we flattered be.

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Francisco de Medrano, XXIX Fray Damián de Cornejo No sé cómo, ni cuándo, ni qué cosa Esta mañana, en Dios y enhorabuena sentí, que me llenaba de dulzura: salí de casa y víneme al mercado; sé que llegó a mis brazos la hermosura, vi un ojo negro al parecer rasgado, de gozarse conmigo cudiciosa. Blanca la frente y rubia la melena. Sé que llegó, si bien, con temerosa Llegué y le dije: “Gloria de mi pena, vista, resistí apenas su figura: muerto me tiene vivo tu cuidado, luego pasmé, como el que en noche escura, vuélveme el alma, pues me la has robado perdido el tino, el pie mover no osa. Con ese encanto de áspid o sirena.” Siguió gran gozo a aqueste pasmo, o sueño Pasó, pasé, miró, miré, vio, vila; —no sé cuándo, ni cómo, ni qué ha sido— dio muestras de querer, hice otro tanto; que lo sensible todo puso en calma. guiñó, guiné, tosió, tosí, seguíla. Ignorallo es saber; que es bien pequeño Fuése a su casa, y sin quitarse el manto, el que puede abarcar solo el sentido alzó, llegué, toqué, besé, cubríla, y éste pudo caber en sola el alma. Dejé el dinero, y fuime como un santo. Francisco de Quevedo, 336 Garcilaso de la Vega, V ¡Ay Floralba! Soñé que te… ¡Dirélo? Escrito ‘stá en mi alma vuestro gesto Sí, pues que sueño fue: que te gozaba. y cuanto yo escribir de vos deseo: ¿Y quién, si no un amante que soñaba, vos sola lo escribisteis; yo lo leo juntara tanto infierno a tanto cielo? tan solo que aun de vos me guardo en esto. Mis llamas con tu nieve y con tu yelo, En esto estoy y estaré siempre puesto, cual suele opuestas flechas de su aljaba, que aunque no cabe en mí cuanto en vos veo, mezclaba Amor, y honesto las mezclaba, de tanto bien lo que no entiendo creo, como mi adoración en su desvelo. tomando ya la fe por presupuesto. Y dije: “Quiera Amor, quiera mi suerte, Yo no nací sino para quereros; que nunca duerma yo, si estoy despierto, mi alma os ha cortado en su medida; y que si duermo, que jamás despierte.” por hábito del alma misma os quiero; Mas desperté del dulce desconcierto; cuanto tengo confieso yo deberos; y vi que estuve vivo con la muerte, por vos nací, por vos tengo la vida, y vi que con la vida estaba muerto. Por vos he de morir, y por vos muero. Atribuido a Quevedo Sor Juana, Soneto El vulgo comúnmente se aficiona Al que ingrato me deja, busco amante; a la que sabe que es doncella y moza, al que amante me sigue, dejo ingrata; porque ansí le parece al que la goza constante adoro a quien mi amor maltrata; que le coge la flor de su persona. maltrato a quien mi amor busca constante. Yo, para mí, más quiero una matrona Al que trato de amor, hallo diamante, que con mil arteficios se remoza, y soy diamante al que de amor me trata; y, por gozar de aquel que la retoza, triunfante quiero ver al que me mata, una hora de la noche no perdona. y mato al que me quiere ver triunfante. La doncella no hace de su parte, Si a éste pago, padece mi deseo; cuando la gozan, cosa que aproveche, si ruego a aquél, mi pundonor enojo: ni se menea, ni da dulces besos. de entrambos modos infeliz me veo. Mas la otra lo hace de tal arte, Pero yo, por mejor partido, escojo y amores os dirá, que en miel y en leche de quien no quiero, ser violento empleo, convierte las medulas de los huesos. que, de quien no me quiere, vil despojo.

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Luis de Góngora, CLXVI Jorge Luis Borges, Ajedrez I Mientras por competir con tu cabello, En su grave rincón, los jugadores oro bruñido al sol relumbra en vano; rigen las lentas piezas. El tablero mientras con menosprecio en medio el llano los demora hasta el alba en su severo mira tu blanca frente el lilio bello; ámbito en que se odian los colores. mientras a cada labio, por cogello, Adentro irradian mágicos rigores siguen más ojos que al clavel temprano; las formas: torre homérica, ligero y mientras triunfa con desdén lozano caballo, armada reina, rey postrero, del luciente cristal tu gentil cuello; oblicuo alfil y peones agresores. goza cuello, cabello, labio y frente, Cuando los jugadores se hayan ido, antes que lo que fue en tu edad dorada cuando el tiempo los haya consumido, oro, lilio, clavel, cristal luciente, ciertamente no habrá cesado el rito. no sólo en plata o viola troncada En el Oriente se encendió esta guerra se vuelva, mas tú y ello juntamente cuyo anfiteatro es hoy toida la tierra. en tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada. Como el otro, este juego es infinito. Francisco de Quevedo, 471 Jorge Luis Borges, Ajedrez II Cerrar podrá mis ojos la postrera Tenue rey, sesgo alfil, encarnizada sombra que me llevare el blanco día, reina, torre directa y peón ladino y podrá desatar esta alma mía sobre lo negro y blanco del camino hora a su afán ansioso lisonjera: buscan y libran su batalla armada. mas no, de esotra parte, en la ribera No saben que la mano señalada dexará la memoria, en donde ardía: del jugador gobierna su destino, nadar sabe millama la agua fría, no saben que un rigor adamantino y perder el respeto a ley severa. sujeta su albedrío y su jornada. Alma que a todo un dios prisión ha sido, También el jugador es prisionero venas que humor a tanto fuego han dado, (la sentencia es de Omar) de otro tablero medulas que han gloriosamente ardido: de negras noches y de blancos días. su cuerpo dexará, no su cuidado; Dios mueve al jugador, y éste, la pieza. serán ceniza, mas tendrán sentido; ¿Qué dios detrás de Dios la trama empieza polvo serán, mas polvo enamorado. de polvo y tiempo y sueño y agonías? Manuel Altolaguirre, La niebla Sor Juana, Soneto La niebla si es cercana me parece Este que ves, engaño colorido, que oculta algún dolor, velo que niega que del arte ostentando los primores, a unos ojos la luz, a los que ciega con falsos silogismos de colores con un blancor de llanto que estremece; es cauteloso engaño del sentido; pero si no es cercana, si se mece éste, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido altísima en el cielo, si navega excusar de los años los horrores, por los espacios donde riega y venciendo del tiempo los rigores con lluvia y no con llanto, me parece triunfar de la vejez y del olvido, como el origen gris de toda cosa. es un vano artificio del cuidado, Es turbia la creación, y considera es una flor al viento delicada, que en el principio fue la nebulosa, es un resguardo inútil para el hado: sin que mirada alguna se escondiera es una necia diligencia errada, tras esa bruma blanda y misteriosa, es un afán caduco y, bien mirado, de la vida tal vez causa primera. es cadáver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada.