—­Advance, advance;
      Till the house shall give thee cover. 
  —­Thou hast borne heavy things
      And meet for lamentation. 
  —­Thou hast passed, hast passed,
      Thro’ the deepest of the River. 
  —­Yet no help comes
      To the sad and silent nation. 
  —­And the face of thy beloved, it shall meet thee never, never!

ADMETUS. 
Ye wrench my wounds asunder.  Where
  Is grief like mine, whose wife is dead? 
  My wife, whom would I ne’er had wed,
Nor loved, nor held my house with her....

Blessed are they who dare to dwell
  Unloved of woman!  ’Tis but one
  Heart that they bleed with, and alone
Can bear their one life’s burden well.

No young shall wither at their side,
  No bridal room be swept by death.... 
  Aye, better man should draw his breath
For ever without child or bride.

CHORUS (as before). 
  —­’Tis Fate, ’tis Fate: 
      She is strong and none shall break her. 
  —­No end, no end,
      Wilt thou lay to lamentations? 
  —­Endure and be still: 
      Thy lamenting will not wake her. 
  —­There be many before thee,
      Who have suffered and had patience. 
  —­Though the face of Sorrow changeth, yet her hand is on all nations.

ADMETUS. 
The garb of tears, the mourner’s cry: 
  Then the long ache when tears are past!... 
  Oh, why didst hinder me to cast
This body to the dust and die
With her, the faithful and the brave? 
  Then not one lonely soul had fled,
  But two great lovers, proudly dead,
Through the deep waters of the grave.

LEADER. 
A friend I knew,
  In whose house died a son,
Worthy of bitter rue,
  His only one. 
His head sank, yet he bare
Stilly his weight of care,
Though grey was in his hair
  And life nigh done.

ADMETUS. 
Ye shapes that front me, wall and gate,
  How shall I enter in and dwell
  Among ye, with all Fortune’s spell
Dischanted?  Aye, the change is great.

That day I strode with bridal song
  Through lifted brands of Pelian pine;
  A hand beloved lay in mine;
And loud behind a revelling throng

Exalted me and her, the dead. 
  They called us young, high-hearted; told
  How princes were our sires of old,
And how we loved and we must wed....

For those high songs, lo, men that moan,
  And raiment black where once was white;
  Who guide me homeward in the night,
On that waste bed to lie alone.

SECOND ELDER. 
It breaks, like strife,
  Thy long peace, where no pain
Had entered; yet is life,
  Sweet life, not slain. 
A wife dead; a dear chair
Empty:  is that so rare? 
Men live without despair
  Whose loves are ta’en.