William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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I.

COME away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress 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.

II.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strewn;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corse, 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!