Winter and summer on this grave,
The damask rose in bloom spring here.
Never to wither though ’tis cropped,
But when thy hand do touch the same,
Then may the bloom that minute blast
To bring to light my bitter shame.
More she’d have said, but with his sword,
He pierc’d her tender body through;
Then threw her in the silent grave,
Saying, now, there is an end of you.