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 worship'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!