I do not see clearly! Listen to what I have to say to you.
Death presses me!
The Princess: Do not die yet, I beg of you!
The King: Death is nothing; but here, here is the final throe!
On what a breast do you lay your head, Compassion!
The vintage is wholly trodden, and from my wounds there oozes only water.
I did not wish to weep, but to arise and walk.
But man goes only forward and he must halt at last.
And from his eyes gush forth the waters
Of that sea whose tide is the same for every breast.