O me, O me! My child, my only life, Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help.

Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she’s cold; Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

Ready to go, but never to return. O son! the night before thy wedding-day Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded: I will die, And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?