My nose, thy tweak hath wrought,
Thou art the loser, in the game
Of combat, that thou sought,
But lo! thy widow, will not weep
It long, for I may say,
She'll shed her weeds, and she will wed
With me, the first of May!
Then, with my spouse upon his arm,
He turned, and sneaked away,
And left me here, a widowed ghost,