Above our lives and yours in triumph tower.
The shortest road which leadeth to the goal
Of our dear Liberty in this sad hour,
Which Heaven offers us with piteous breath,
Conducts us only to the arms of Death.
Nor thou, dear consort, sweetest of thy race,
Shalt suffer peril from the Roman bands;
Nor shall they soil thy modesty and grace
With eyes lascivious, or with ruthless hands!
My sword shall snatch thee from this foul disgrace,