Thou madest with high hope my heart to beat
And then didst hurry off and bear with thee
All of the gladness thou once gavest me.
’Tis half my heart I lack through this thy taking
And what is left is good for naught but aching.
Stonecutters, set me up a carven stone
And let this sad inscription run thereon:
Ursula Kochanowski lieth here,
Her father’s sorrow and her father’s dear;
For heedless Death hath acted here crisscross: