Before her new-made tomb at last arrived,
The woeful prison of his living spright, 
Pale, cold, sad, comfortless, of sense deprived,
Upon the marble grey he fix'd his sight; 
Two streams of tears were from his eyes derived:
Thus, with a sad alas, began the knight:- 
Oh, marble dear! on my dear mistress plac'd.
My flames within, without my tears thou hast. 

Not of dead bones art thou the mournful grave,
But of quick love the fortress and the hold;
Still in my heart thy wonted brand I have,
More bitter far, alas! but not more cold. 
Receive these sighs, these kisses sweet receive,
In liquid drops of melting tears enroll'd, 
And give them to that body pure and chaste
Which in thy bosom cold entomb'd thou bast. 

For if her happy soul her eye doth bend 
On that sweet body which it lately dress'd,
My love, thy pity, cannot her offend, 
Anger and wrath is not in angels bless'd; 
She pardon will the trespass of her friend; 
That hope relieves me with these griefs oppress'd.
This hand she knows hath only sinn'd, not I
Who living lov'd her, and for love now die.

And loving will I die; O happy day 
Whene'er it chanceth! but O far more blest,
lf as about thy polished sides I stray, 
My bones within thy hollow grave might rest;
Together should in heav'n our spirits stay,
Together should our bodies lie in chest; 
So happy death should join what life doth sever:
O death! O life! sweet both, both blessed ever.