| lyric | Come aweay, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid:
Fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My schroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it! My part of death
no one so true Did share it.
Not a flower sweet,
In my blackcoffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, greet
My poor corse,
where my bones hsall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sights to save,
Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never
find my grave, To weep there! |