Dirge

COME away, come away, death,

   And in sad cypres let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

   I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

   O prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true

   Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

   On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

   My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

   Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave

   To weep there!