.
.
Come away, come away, death

     Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress 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.
                                 (Twelfth Night, I I, 4) 

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