Then from her arms he ran straightway
In fury, out his sword he drew.
Her hands as white as lilies fair,
Most dreadfully she then did wring
She said, my death’s approaching near,
Would I pity take and comfort him
It only brings my fatal fall,
’Tis I who must receive the wound
The crimson dye forsook her cheeks,
At his feet she dropp’d upon the ground.