‘ntil before your last heir shall be,
A Curse from me-to you-to he.
Born beautiful, with a smiling face,
But ne’er will he feel Luve’s close embrace.
His days will grow weary; vision-swayed,
Yet still young, his heart an’ hair be greyed!
I curse thee and thy heir three times three!
So says I, And so his life shall be:
Alone. Desolate. Eternity.