Come away, come away, death
Come away, come away,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away,
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
On my black coffin let there be strown:
Not a friend, not a
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.
(Twelfth Night, I I, 4)