MY silks and fine array, My smiles and languish'd air, By Love are driven away;   And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven   When springing buds unfold: O why to him was '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 axe 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!