My silks and fine array，

    My smiles and languish'd air，

    By love are driv'n away；

    And mournful lean Despair

    Brings me yew to deck my grave；

    Such end true lovers have.

    His face is fair as heav'n

    When springing buds unfold；

    O why to him was't giv'n

    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！