When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.
Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Deathโs.
And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.
For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.