Such murderous toils the ruffians use, who spill
Their neighbour’s blood, that they may seize his gold,
And warm their heart with plenty not their own.
Lodge no such mate with me! Sooner may I
Live by high Heaven accursed, and childless die.
Chorus.
A sorry work—alas! alas!
A dismal death she found.
Nor sorrow quite from man may pass
That lives above the ground.