Should in some pitying, almost pardoning age,
Consign my sorrows to some weeping page;
And should the affecting page be haply read
By some new Charlotte—mine will then be dead.
(Yes; she shall die—sole solace of my love!
And we shall meet—for so she said—above.)
O Charlotte! (Martha—by whatever name,
Thy faithful Werter hands thee down to fame,)
O be thou sure thy Werter never knows
The fatal story of my kindred woes!