Death where is thy sting
when I am already stung,
by lips that laugh and speak and sing
the words once held by muted tongue.

For lo no light from window broke
no Juliet nor waining moon,
just honest words of love were spoke
that gave my heart a brand new tune.

So slings and arrows do thy worst
and misfortune come as may,
for here at last am I uncursed
as in her arms I softly lay.

Let scholars say he was the bard
and all his works a work of art,
but I would rather be fool hard
and know I am her work of heart.