“The youth, who could not cheat his guards so soon, Late came, and noted by the glimmering moon Some savage feet new printed on the ground, His cheeks turn’d pale, his limbs no vigour found: But when, advancing on, the veil he spied Distain’d with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried, ‘One night shall death to two young lovers give, But she deserved unnumber’d years to live! ’Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray’d, Who came not early as my charming maid. Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain, I named and fix’d the place where thou wast slain. Ye lions, from your neighb’ring dens repair, Pity the wretch; this impious body tear! But cowards thus for death can idly cry; The brave still have it in their power to die.’ Then to the appointed tree he hastes away, The veil first gather’d, though all rent it lay; The veil all rent, yet still itself endears, He kiss’d, and kissing, wash’d it with his tears. ‘Though rich,’ he cried, ‘with many a precious stain, Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain.’ Then in his breast his shining sword he drown’d, And fell supine extended on the ground.