Chorus.
I could have used thy phrase, and wished to die.
Herald.
Die now, an’ thou wilt, for joy! The rolling years
Have given all things a prosperous end, though some
Were hard to bear; for who, not being a god,
Can hope to live long years of bliss unbroken?
A weary tale it were to tell the tithe
Of all our hardships; toils by day, by night,
Harsh harbourage, hard hammocks, and scant sleep.