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 *****,
  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!