Margaret

No, no! Thou must outlive us. Now I’ll tell thee the graves to give us: Thou must begin to-morrow The work of sorrow! The best place give to my mother, Then close at her side my brother, And me a little away, But not too very far, I pray! And here, on my right breast, my baby lay! Nobody else will lie beside me!— Ah, within thine arms to hide me, That was a sweet and a gracious bliss, But no more, no more can I attain it! I would force myself on thee and constrain it, And it seems thou repellest my kiss: And yet ’tis thou, so good, so kind to see!