For I bewail my proper woe

As, mine with his, all into one I throw.

Why hast thou hither me unhappy brought?

—Unless that I should die with him—for naught!

What else was sought?

Cho. Thou art some mind-mazed creature, god-possessed:

And all about thyself dost wail

A lay—no lay!

Like some brown nightingale

Insatiable of noise, who—well away!—