[He bows his head in tears.]
O kingly Jonathan, would I might give
The beating of my life into your veins—
Willing for it would I be drouth and die.
How are the mighty fallen and the fair!
[With lifted arm, deeply moved.]
Peaks, mountains of Gilboa, let no more
Dew be upon you, and as sackcloth let
Clouds cover you, and ashes be your soil,
Until I bring upon Philistia