1OME away, come away, death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slam by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it I
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'
145 Under the Greenwood Tree
UNDER the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy
But winter and rough weather* 144 cypres] crape.