He sleepeth.—Nay, I fear,

Now may the truth strike dead

My terror—step thou near—

Gently.—Alas! woe, woe,

Woe, woe, woe, woe, he is dead.

He sits dead in his chair.

See at his heart, where yet

The murderous wound is wet.—

Our prince, our prince is dead—

They have slain him in their spite—