William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

From ‘Twelfth Night’, Act II. Scene 4

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.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown;

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.