Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.