She bathèd oft with tears and drièd oft:
And with sweet kisses, sucked the wasting breath
Out of his lips, like lilies pale and soft.
And oft she called to him, who answered nought;
But only by his looks did tell his thought.
The rest of her impatient regret
And piteous moan, the which she for him made;
No tongue can tell, nor any forth can set:
But he whose heart, like sorrow did invade.
At last, when pain his vital powers had spent,