The King: O Father,
Come! O Smile, recline upon me.
As the folk of the vintage before the vats
Go out from the house of the wine-press by all the doors like a torrent,
My blood by all these wounds goes out to meet you in triumph.
I die. Who shall relate
That dying, arms outstretched, I held the sun on my breast like a wheel?
O Prince, clothed with glory,
Breast against breast you mingle yourself in my terrestrial blood! Drink the slave!
O lion, you overwhelm me! O eagle, you grasp me in your talons!