Come tread the paths of pensive pangs
With me, ye lovers true.
Bewail with me your luckless lot,
With tears you eyes bedew.
Aid me, ye ghosts who loathed life,
Your lovers being slain,
With sighs and sobs and notes of dule
My hard hap to complain.

Farewell, my lords and friends;
Farewell my princely state:
Let father rue his rigour,
Shown in slaying of my mate.
Ah! Guichardo, if thy sprite do walk,
Come draw thy lover nigh:
Behold, I yield to thee my ghost;
Ah, see! I die, alas, I die.