That grieve they have no burden any more.
Now I must sing, and know, the while, no ears
Are there to hearken.
The birds will ask me, "To whom singest thou?"
The moon look down and ask, "Whom rockest thou?"
The grave will be right proud, while I am cursed,
That I did give her thee.
My womb upbraideth me because I gave
To Death the gift that once she gave to me,
The gift that sprung from her.