Come, tread the paths of pensive pangs
With me, ye lovers true.
Bewail with me your luckless lot;
With tears your eyes bedew.
Aid me, ye ghosts who loathed life,
Your lovers being slain;
With sighs and sobs and notes of dule
My hard hap to complain.
Farewell, my lords and friends;
Farewell my princely state.
Let father rue his rigour
Shown in slaying of my mate.
‖: Guichardo, :‖ ah! Guichardo,
If thy sprite do walk,
Come draw thy lover nigh.
‖: Behold, :‖ I yield to thee my ghost;
‖: Ah, see! I die, I die, I die. :‖
‖: Ah, :‖ (×3) alas, ‖: I die. :‖ (×4)