Song

Song

　　MY silks and fine array

　　My smiles and languish'd air

　　By Love are driven away;

　　And mournful lean Despair

　　Brings me yew¹ to deck my grave:

　　Such end true lovers have.

　　His face is fair as heaven

　　When springing buds unfold:

　　O why to him wasn't given

　　Whose heart is wintry cold?

　　His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb

　　Where all Love's pilgrims come.

　　Bring me an axe² and spade

　　Bring me a winding-sheet;

　　When I my grave have made

　　Let winds and tempests beat:

　　Then down I'll lie as cold as clay:

　　True love doth pass away!