Dirge of Love

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    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 corpse, 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.