You gods that guide the ghosts
And souls of them that fled,
Send sobs, send sighs, send grievous groans,
And strike poor Panthea dead.
‖: Abradad, :‖: ah, :‖ alas poor Abradad!
My sprite with thine shall lie.
Come death, alas, O death most sweet,
‖: For now :‖ (×3) I crave ‖: to die. :‖ (×5)