Wake all the dead ! what ho ! what ho ! 
How soundly sleep they whose pillows lie low ! 
They mind not poor lovers who walk above 
On the decks of the world in storms of love. 
No whisper now nor glance shall pass 
Through wickets or through panes of glass ; 
For our windows and doors are shut and barred. 
Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard. 
In every grave make room, make room ! 
The world's at an end, and we come, we come. 

The state is now love's foe, love's foe ; 
'T has seized on his arms, his quiver and bow ; 
Has pinioned his wings, and fettered his feet, 
Because he made way for lovers to meet. 
But, O sad chance, his judge was old ; 
Hearts cruel grow, when blood grows cold. 
No man being young his process would draw. 
O heavens, that love should be subject to law!
Lovers go woo the dead, the dead !
Lie two in a grave, and to bed, to bed !