Act I, scene iv, lines 259-72 

The swallow leaves her nest, 
The soul my weary breast; 
But therefore let the rain 
 On my grave 
Fall pure; for why complain 
Since both will come again 
 O'er the wave. 

The wind dead leaves and snow 
Doth hurry to and fro; 
And, once, a day shall break 
 O'er the wave, 
When a storm of ghosts shall shake 
The dead, until they wake 
 In the grave.