[♦] Dying with mother’s dug between its lips:
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad
395 And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,
To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth;
[♦] So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,
Or I should breathe it so into thy body,
[♦] And then it lived in sweet Elysium.
400 To die by thee were but to die in jest;
From thee to die were torture more than death:
O, let me stay, befall what may befall!