LXXIV
O Death! rock me asleep;
Bring me to quiet rest;
let pass my weary, guiltless ghost
out of my careful breast.
Toll on, the passing-bell;
ring out my doleful knell;
let the sound my death tell.
Death does draw nigh;
there is no remedy.
My pains, who can express?
Alas! they are so strong
my dolor will not suffer strength
my life for to prolong.
Toll on, the passing-bell;
ring out my doleful knell;
let the sound my death tell.
for I must die;
there is no remedy.
Alone, in prison strong,
I wait my destiny.
Woe worth this cruel hap, that I
should taste this misery!
Toll on, the passing-bell;
ring out my doleful knell;
let the sound my death tell.
Death does draw nigh;
there is no remedy.
Farewell! my pleasures past;
welcome! my present pain.
I feel my torments so increase
that life cannot remain.
Toll on, the passing-bell;
wrong is my doleful knell;
for the sound my death does tell.
Death does draw nigh;
there is no remedy.
Sound my end dolefully
for now I die.
George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford.
dolor—anguish.
hap—bad luck, mishap.
Modernized by S. Rhoads, from Early Sixteenth Century Lyrics, edited by Frederick Morgan Padelford, Ph.D.; D.C. Heath and Co., Publishers;1907.
NOTE from the text:
Written by George Boleyn, the brother of Anne, when imprisoned in the Tower, waiting his execution. On May 2, 1536, he was arrested, along with his sister, and committed to the Tower (Let. And Pap. 10. 782, 784, 785, et al). On May 15th he was arraigned for incest (Let. And Pap. 10. 876-878), and on May 17, along with other alleged paramours of the Queen, was beheaded (Let. And Pap. 10. 890, Holinshed, 3. 940a. 50) . History has not substantiated the horrible charge against Rochford, but it is agreed that his conduct was indecorous. (Cf. Friedmann, 2. 273.) For the best account of his life, cf. Bapst.
Original
O Death! rocke me asleep;
Bringe me to quiet reste;
let pass my weary, guiltles ghost
out of my carefull brest.
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
ring out my dolefull knell;
let thy sounde my death tell.
Death dothe drawe ny;
there is no remedie.
My paynes, who can expres?
Alas! they are so stronge
my dolor will not suffer strength
my lyfe for to prolonge.
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
ring out my dolefull knell;
let thy sounde my death tell.
for I must dye;
there is no remedie.
Alone, in prison stronge,
I wayte my destenye.
Wo worth this cruel hap, that I
should taste this miserie!
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
ring out my dolefull knell;
let thy sounde my death tell.
Death dothe drawe ny;
there is no remedie.
Farewell! my pleasures past;
welcum! my present payne.
I fele my tormentes so increse
that lyfe cannot remayne.
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
rong is my dolefull knell;
for the sound my dethe doth tell.
Death dothe drawe ny;
there is no remedie.
Sound my end dolefully
for now I dye.
