Drop golden showers, gentle sleep,
And all the angels of the night
Which do us in protection keep 
Make this Queen dream of delight.
Morpheus, be kind a while and be 
Death's now true image, for 'twill prove
To her that sleeps here thou art he.
Her grave is made in the bed of love. 

Now when she looks her lord should come,
She's dreaming sent to Elysium. 
Her marriage night she well may call
No wedding but a funeral.