To darken me and my sad clime; 40
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then;
And all that space my mirth adjourn.
So thou wouldst promise to return;
And putting off thy ashy shroud 45
At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I