Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 47

       Come away, come away, Death,

     And in sad cypres 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 corpse, where my bones shall thrown:

     A thousand thousand sighs to save,

          Lay me, O where

     Sad true lover never find my grave,

          To weep there.