Wouldst have me die? Then I'll no longer live.
Grant unto me for sepulchre thy bed,
Make me straightway a pillow of thy head,
And with thy mouth one kiss, beloved one, give.
At Chioggia, where still in the summer evenings Orlando Furioso is read in the public places, and where artists go in quest of the old Venetian type, they sing a yet more impassioned little song.
Oh, Morning Star, I ask of thee this grace,
This only grace I ask of thee, and pray:
The water where thou hast washed thy breast and face,
In kindly pity throw it not away.