LXII
DIRGE OF LOVE
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;
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.
W. Shakespeare/The Golden Treasure, Francis T. Palgrave
Mws R Writings 