Hushed will be all my murmurs in the sleep of the grave.
Every sentiment has perished in my bosom.

Even friendship is extinct.
Your love for me has prompted me to this task; but I would not have complied if it had not been a luxury thus to feast upon my woes.

I have justly calculated upon my remnant of strength.

When I lay down the pen the taper of life will expire: my existence will terminate with my tale.
Now that I was left alone with Wieland, the perils of my situation presented themselves to my mind.

That this paroxysm should terminate in havock and rage it was reasonable to predict.