In the play which he has written for the world
Night is the mother of sleep
Old age is a malady of which one dies
Augury of a better age
Sages as far as the beard
Their wounds smelled so sweetly
Temptation, the father of my lust
Chalcedony shines like the new born

Stricken I'd raise my dripping limbs
Splendid was the innocentcs fall
Laugh to scorn would our foe
Amid wars laws are silent
Drop by drop in sleep upon the heart
Falls the labrious memory of pain
In the rich upheavel of vast choirs
Death shall flee from me!