Dirge of Love
William Shakespeare, 1609

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;
       Not a friend, not a friend greet
     My poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown:
     A thousand thousand sighs to save,
          Lay me, O where
     Sad true lover never find my grave,
          To weep there.