[MILES]
Sound the flute,
Blow the horn,
Pluck the lute,
Forward, mourn!

[MOURNERS]
Ahh...ahhh...ahhhh...

[MILES]
Ah!

[MOURNERS]
Ah!

[MILES]
All Crete was at her feet,
All Thrace was in her thrall,
All Sparta loved her sweetness, and Gaul--

[PSEUDOLUS]
And Spain--

[MILES]
And Greece--

[PSEUDOLUS]
And Egypt--

[MILES]
And Syria--

[PSEUDOLUS]
And Mesopotamia--

[MOURNERS]
All Crete was at her feet,
All Thrace was in her thrall,
Oh, why should such a blossom fall?

[MILES]
Speak the spells,
Strum the lyre,
Toll the bells,
Light the pyre.

[MOURNERS]
Ahh...ahhh...ahhhh...

[MILES]
All Crete was at her feet,
But I shall weep no more.
I'll find my consolation as before,
Among the simple pleasures of war!