O Muse, thou art a maker of tireless melody,
Who with thine scintillating passion maketh my own less illustrious,
Thou art the source of - yet anodyne to - my tender malady,
For thine assiduous affections I have clamoured industrious.
Should your song run dry and run out of harmony,
And the coda finally end,
You truth will be nevertheless understood for thy cosmic symphony,
A truth that Heaven dare not forfend.
O let my lust be reciprocal,
Or my own Heart's strength will decay,
Upon thee I have been attentive, focal,
For hope that thine Heart could assuage my dismay.
    Yet away with me, I hear you say,
    Administering poison in the fifth act of the play.