The song that I sing—yea, 'tis no new song,
It is tried—and so it is true.
Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care,
So that I here abide;
Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love,
But keep me close to your side.
I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love,
Your breast from your thorn, my rose,
And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love!
But—say 'twas the death I chose.