The. Not while my mother lives to suffer for it.
Oc. My love, as nature runs, she must die first.
Forgive my rudest tongue—but will you then—
When so she goes—bring all this heart to me?
I'm tortured lest her bitter will against me
Should reach back from the tomb.
The. Ah, my beloved,
The wounds we give the dead must fall unfelt.
Then why should senseless graves wound life? Ay, then—
Unhappy happy then—I'll be all yours.