Dirge

by
 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!

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