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!