Thy grieving mother, and thy tearful bride.
Thy death and mine are linked, and it is plain
That I must follow thee, whate'er betide;
Morandro, friend, it is, it must be so,
No word of thine will keep me from thy side.
Morandro.
If go thou must, let us together go,
And in the silence of the gloomy night
Make sudden fierce assault upon the foe.
Bear nothing with thee but thine armour light,