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Fate! I have askt few things of thee,
And fewer have to ask.
Shortly, thou knowest, I shall be
No more: then con thy task.


If one be left on earth so late
Whose love is like the past,
Tell her in whispers, gentle Fate!
Not even love must last.


Tell her I leave the noisy feast
Of life, a little tired,
Amid its pleasures few possest
And many undesired.


Tell her with steady pace to come
And, where my laurels lie,
To throw the freshest on the tomb,
When it has caught her sigh.


Tell her to stand some steps apart
From others on that day,
And check the tear (if tear should start)
Too precious for dull clay.