“Know’st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife? Or are my features perish’d with my life? Look once again, and for thy husband lost, Lo! all that’s left of him, thy husband’s ghost! Thy vows for my return were all in vain, The stormy south o’ertook us in the main, And never shalt thou see thy living lord again. Bear witness Heaven, I call’d on thee in death, And, while I call’d, a billow stopp’d my breath. Think not that flying fame reports my fate, I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate. Rise, wretched widow, rise, nor undeplored Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford; But rise, prepared in black, to mourn thy perish’d lord.”