Then Let Thy Love Be

Death, Not Romeo, Take My Maidenhead!

O Death, Made Proud With Pure And Princely Beauty!

You Draw Me, You Hard-hearted Adamant; But Yet You Draw Not Iron, For My Heart Is True As Steel: Leave You Your Power To Draw, And I Shall Have No Power To Follow You.

Thou Art All The Comfort, The Gods Will Diet Me With.

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.