'T were vain to tell thee all I feel, or say for thee I'd die. Ah, well-a-day, the sweetest melody, could never, never say, one half my love for thee.
Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day! This round world's but a bitter pill." We too are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not.